


What Turns Up In The Dark

by RemainNameless



Series: on hiatus i'm sorry [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AU, Angst, F/M, Hate Sex, Jackson is dead when it starts fyi, M/M, Post-Apocalypse, Prescription Drug Abuse, Stiles-centric, Zombie Apocalypse, does not ignore the moral implications of killing zombies, serious moral relativity, tags are not a joke
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-20
Updated: 2013-01-19
Packaged: 2017-11-12 12:37:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 35,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/491109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RemainNameless/pseuds/RemainNameless
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. Post-Zombie Apocalypse. </p><p>Six months after the zombie apocalypse begins, Stiles, Scott, Allison, Lydia, and Danny are holed away in a farm house in Arkansas. Derek and the betas are making their way across the country, taking what they need to get by. They didn't mean to join forces, but it turns out to be an...interesting arrangement, to say the least.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> World is sort of a Walking Dead/Supernatural's The End!verse/Book of Eli fusion. Dystopian anarchy like whoa. Morality is basically a practical joke.
> 
> Title from The New Pornographers, "Up In The Dark"
> 
> "What's love?  
> What what turns up in the dark?"

The flame of the lighter flickers over the curve of the one crooked nail. Stiles is going to have to beat it into shape in a moment, when he’s done sterilizing. And then maybe he’ll sharpen things up a little. What’s the point of carrying around a file if he isn’t going to use it? Sharper nails won't bend so frequently. Always a pain.

The radio crackles in the next room as Lydia works. At first, he’d been skeptical about the merits of her little project, too concerned with the here and now, the likelihood that they might die this week or next week, but there’s not much else for a brain like hers to do. He knows that the sitting around is the worst part, and maybe he envies her a little because she’s found something to do. He’d glanced at her map yesterday, actually, and it actually looks like she’s getting somewhere. Tracking walker herd migrations is perhaps a little more long-term than their other priorities, but she’d predicted an attack last week, so he’s not going to knock it. 

It only takes a few hard taps with a hammer to straighten out that one nail, and when he’s done, he twists the bat in his grip, giving a few experimental swings before inspecting the nail work again. There’s still a little blood, soaked into the wood around where the nails stick out, and that makes him rethink trying to file anything. They don’t have a mask of any sort, and the chances of something going airborne are too high to risk it. Frankly, they just don’t know that much about the contagion. 

The baby monitor in the living room barks out a burst of static. “Is anyone there?— I— Please— Don’t shoot— _Help_ —“ Stiles grabs the device, running upstairs to the one surveillance window. A couple hundred yards away, at the front gate, he can make out two figures, no vehicle nearby. One of them looks unable to support themself. 

“Place your weapons down next to the gate. I want to see your hands,” he says into the receiver. Can’t be too careful. Two months ago, when they were all on the road, a group had used a child to get them to pull over. They’d taken all of their food and water. Hadn’t been a good week after that. He’s not going to risk anything here, not when they’ve got a stable set-up. 

“I don’t think she can stand on her own,” comes a male voice. Not good. Stiles has a bad feeling about this. “Please, we haven’t had any water in two days. She’s been having seizures. _Please_.” Stiles studies the two figures, fighting himself. It could be a trap. But if it is, he and Lydia are fairly capable of defending themselves, and Danny’s not far, just down at the well trying to fix the water pressure issue they’d noticed this morning. Scott and Allison should be back in an hour anyway. They can handle it. And really, Stiles doesn’t want to turn these two away, just in case they really are just two out-of-luck kids trying to stay alive. There's a fine line between doing anything to survive and retaining some of his humanity, and this is what sets them apart from the walkers. They protect their own. At least once they're certain they're not rapists or cannibals.

“Advance slowly,” he says at last. “Stop before you get to the porch. We’re armed and we’re not fooling around.” One of the figures takes the other into their arms, bridal style, and Stiles watches their first staggering steps before he bolts downstairs, straight to Lydia.

She holds up a finger, one hand pressing her headphones against the side of her head, then dropping to write something down. A second later, she spins in her chair. “What do you want?” 

“We’ve got two visitors. Living. Dehydrated, and one of them pretty bad. We’ve only got a minute or two.” 

She gets up, grabbing the crossbow leaning against her desk and taking a second to make sure her hunting knife is strapped to her thigh tightly enough. “Let’s go play the welcome committee, then,” she says with the sort of smile that would be a grimace on anyone else. He grins, makes sure his fingerless gloves are on tight before grabbing his bat where it rests next to the front door. 

It’s fucking hot outside, to be honest, and he pities these two because his hoodie’s just cotton and he’s _burning_ in the dry heat; these two are both in leather, which must be like being cooked slowly. No wonder she’s having seizures. (But a part of him notes that if they’ve been wandering for two days, the wouldn’t be wearing the jackets still, not if they have two brain cells to rub together.) The boy, because he _is_ a boy, probably not much older than Stiles himself, has curly hair and a lost expression and he looks like he can barely hold the girl up anymore. She’s clinging to him, pale, and Stiles isn’t sure he believes them yet, but she doesn’t look healthy either way. 

The boy looks from Stiles’ bat to Stiles face with hesitancy, then says, “Please, just some water and shade. _Please_.” Stiles glances over at Lydia; her crossbow is trained on the boy’s head, finger on the trigger. They have the upperhand. These two can’t know they don’t have a small army hidden inside. They’ll be fine. 

Stiles nods, stepping aside to let them in the door.

As soon as the air conditioning hits them, he can see the pair relax a little.

“You can set her down on the couch,” Stiles says. He waits for Lydia to get inside before setting the barriers back up on the door. The boy looks relieved to have her out of his arms, but he crouches by her, touching her face. 

“Do you have any water?” he asks. “She had a seizure about half a mile from here, and she’s been like this since. I think she’s dehydrated.” Stiles and Lydia trade looks, then he heads into the kitchen. There’s a small tank of water in the fridge that Allison boiled last night, and he pours two cups before finding a rag to soak. 

The boy’s grateful when he returns. Stiles watches him lay the rag across her forehead and try to get her to drink for a moment. They look hard, but most people these days do. That doesn’t mean anything. But he doesn’t trust them. Not a bit. Trust doesn’t exactly get you far anymore. 

“What are your names?” he asks. Really, he doesn’t care, but it’s a gateway to learning more about them. If they’ve been traveling alone. If they have anything of value on them. If they’re going to try to stay and take advantage of the situation.

“I’m Isaac. She’s Erica. You?” He glances up, and maybe it’s because he’s on his knees, but he looks oddly innocent. Some people just have innocent eyes. He met a guy with innocent eyes once; he'd tried to make Stiles his next meal. Innocent eyes don't mean much these days.

“Are you alone?” There’s no reason to tell them anything. Not until they’ve proven they can be trusted.

Isaac nods. “Our car broke down just out of Greenville. We’ve been on foot since.”

“What do you have on you?” His tone is pretty clear, and Isaac looks almost betrayed. “What, you didn’t think this was a charity, did you? You’re going to find a way to pay us back. Everyone has something of value.” He’s hoping for antibiotics or a bottle of pills, something they can use, but they don’t look like that’s what they’ll be carrying. Drugs, on the other hand…always good for bartering, if that’s the best they’ve got.

“We don’t have _anything_ ,” Isaac says indignantly. “We got raided on the roads yesterday. They took everything we had.”

“You were on the _roads_? _On foot_?” Lydia asks, incredulous. “Do you have a death wish?” It isn’t safe to travel the roads anymore unless you’ve got a car, and a hefty one at that. Parasites are drawn to the roads, willing to take down anyone for a little food, if they’re nice. If not, you’re either dead or you wish you were. Traveling on foot, especially good-looking as these two? That’s suicide. 

“We didn’t have any other choice,” he grinds out, patting Erica’s face with the wet rag. The thing is, this story of theirs only makes Stiles more suspicious. No one’s that dumb. No one. “Can I use your restroom?”

“Don’t shit and don’t use our toilet paper. Down the hall there,” Lydia says, pointing him in the right direction. She looks at Stiles, and he nods just barely. 

“I’m going to get you some more water,” he tells Erica, loud enough for Isaac to hear, then slips into Lydia’s work room. It shares a wall with the bathroom and no, he’s not a creep, but he’s not taking chances. They don’t know these two well enough not to monitor them. 

He presses his ear against the wall, listening as the door shuts. Footsteps. Rustling. Then a strange sound, and Isaac is whispering.

“No, there’s only two of them. They’ve got water and air-conditioning….No, no guns that we’ve seen…. _Of course_ they don’t trust us. Would you?….Yeah, yeah. Just hurry up. The kid with the bat looks a little twitchy.” Stiles backs away from the wall silently. Reinforcements. Not good. Not good at all. There’s no way of knowing how many there could be or what kind of weaponry they might have. Shit. This is going to get ugly. 

In the kitchen he grabs a piece of charcoal from the bag by the stove. The back door isn’t locked or barricaded because there’s a three-foot drop where there’d been wooden stairs and Danny’s should be back soon, so he opens the door as quietly as he can, jotting down on the cracked white paint:

 _D_ —

_Raid. Living. >2\. Tell S+A_

— _S_

Danny has one of the sat phones on him. He’ll be able to stop Scott and Allison from walking into a trap when they get back. The three of them are tough. They should be alright. 

Stiles checks the knife strapped to his calf under his jeans before heading back into the living room with more water. Isaac comes back at the same time, thanks him for the water. When he kneels down again, Stiles moves forward a little so that Lydia’s behind him and makes a thumbs-down behind his back. 

The problem is, they can’t kill these two. Not yet. Because the rest of their little group might be bigger, might feel like revenge, and then they’re screwed. Great. This is why a little compassion is a terrible thing. Stiles is going to remember that in the future. If anyone gets hurt, he’s not going to forgive himself. Not again. Not after Ja— Not after last time. 

 

It takes all of three minutes for Isaac and Erica to pull handguns on them.

Lydia sets her crossbow down gently. They've been waiting for it.

“Hands out in front of you,” Erica says as she hands her gun over to Isaac. She pulls a coil of plastic-sheathed electrical wire from the small of her back. Stiles curses himself for not having frisked them. _Stupid, stupid, stupid_. 

She wraps their wrists tight, too tight to wiggle out of, and leaves them there. They're a bit more prepared than he'd anticipated. Stiles feels like a real chump even if he’d never trusted them because _he shouldn’t have let them in in the first place_. So _stupid_. 

Erica comes back with two dining chairs and forces them down next to each other. Apparently, they’re actually kind of smart because the way she ties their hands to their chairs, forcing their arms back behind their heads, makes it nearly impossible to really move their arms at all, let alone access any potential weapons stuck in the waists of their pants. 

“How many of you are there?” Stiles asks, staring hard at Isaac as Erica finishes Lydia up. 

“You’ll find out soon enough,” he says. His face has sharpened a little, hardened more. Everyone’s a killer these days, so it’s hard to tell those that’ll kill the living. Stiles can’t get enough of a read on either of them to know if he’ll shoot. 

There’s a sharp knock at the door, and Erica slides back the planks barricading the door, undoes the locks. When she pulls the door open, she’s grinning, and there’s something mildly terrifying about it.

In walk two men, both carrying shotguns. Hard expressions. More leather. Classy. 

“Which one is in charge?” asks the older of the two men. By the way the other three look at him, he’s got to be their leader. Which, Jesus, is _not_ fair because his shoulders take up half the room and his jaw could probably cut glass. Fucking hell. He's ten times more intimidating than Stiles will ever be.

“Him,” Erica says, tossing a head of blonde curls in Stiles’ direction. 

“Just you two?” the leader asks him in a gruff voice. 

Stiles slaps on a confident smirk and tries to shrug. “Why? Planning a party later?” The man nods at Isaac, who backhands him. Pain bursts across his jaw, lances through his tongue where the impact forces him to bite it. The bitter, salty taste of blood fills his mouth, and he winces as he spits on the floor in front of him. “I take it you’re pissed you didn’t get an invite. Sorry, man, look—“

“Deal with her,” the man says to Erica, who slips out a knife and throws herself across Lydia’s lap. 

“She’s so pretty, though,” Erica mocks, grinning, and yanks Lydia’s head back by her ponytail. The knife flashes up to her throat. Lydia glances at him with just the smallest trace of fear, which means she must be _freaking_ out. Looking at Erica's face, he can't take the chance that she's not willing to kill Lydia.

“Three more,” Stiles says quickly. “They’re on a supply run two towns over. Left a couple of hours ago. Shouldn’t be back for at least another three.” Really, he expects Scott and Allison to show up in the next forty-five minutes, but Danny should be back far sooner, and he’ll coordinate something with them. It’s going to work out okay. It will. It has to. If they hurt Lydia, he’s going to—

“See, now that wasn’t so hard.” Fearless Leader crosses his arms, which makes his biceps stand out kind of obscenely. Shit, he could probably crush Stiles’ head with his bare hands. “Tell me about food, water, and electricity...” He gestures all-inclusively.

“House has its own generator and well. Food is running low, hence, _supply run_.”

The man nods and rubs at the stubble on his jaw with one hand. “Bullets and bandages?” 

“We don’t use guns,” Stiles says, forcing himself to keep still as he thinks about his father’s handgun in the bedside table upstairs, the four rounds in it. And where the other two went: one for his mom when the bite had finally turned her, one for his dad when the guilt had made him turn the gun on himself. “And like I said: _supply run_.”

“You’re lying.”

Fearless Leader’s eyes flick up to him, grey-green and oddly pretty, and a chill runs through him. Yeah, he’s lying, but he’s _good_ at lying. He doesn’t look at Lydia, though, because he can’t, not if he’s going to be wholly honest here. If he has to. Maybe he won’t.

"We have half a vial of penicillin in the bathroom cabinet, no needles. Neosporin, maybe a bandaid or two, but that’s _it_.”

“If you don’t stop lying to me, your friend is going to get hurt. Do you want that?”

Stiles sighs. “There’s a bag upstairs, blue. In the second bedroom. There’s a bottle stuffed in a brown sock. Adderall and Xanax. That’s all I have.” Lydia doesn’t know about his stash; he’s been keeping it a secret since Beacon Hills. (Not “home”. That’s not a word in anyone’s vocabulary anymore.) Not even Scott knows, and that’s the way it should be. He’s been rationing, too. Saves the Adderall for when they know they’re going to fight and his ADD could get them killed, saves the Xanax for after, when his body won’t stop shaking with adrenaline and panic and the corrosive ache of his humanity draining out of him slowly. 

That bottle a fucking gold mine to people like this. A tab of Xanax can buy a person’s body for a night, and Stiles has at least twenty left. Maybe they’ll leave after this. Maybe that’ll be enough for them.

Fearless Leader jerks his head at Isaac, who clunks upstairs. 

“Look, I’ve given you everything of value we have! Just leave us alone. _We’re harmless_!”

The man takes his bat from where it rests beside the door, inspecting the barbed end. “Really? Because this doesn’t look _harmless_ to me. I don’t trust you, so we’re going to wait until the rest of your little crew come back, and then we’re going to take everything you have.” He sets the bat back down as Stiles grits his teeth. The taste of blood is still thick in his mouth, so he spits again, right at the man’s feet.

“Is that what you do? You take your little harem of teenagers and you bleed people dry? We’re just trying to _survive_.” Suddenly, the man is all up in his space and his chair is on two legs. The only thing stopping him from falling back against the floor is the man’s fist clenched around a handful of Stiles’ shirt. Alright, he’s a little scary. He has the kind of face that does scary well, and he's practically growling, snarling, feral.

“We’re _all_ just trying to survive,” he hisses, then takes an angry step back, righting Stiles’ chair again. 

Great. So this guy may or may not be a bit of a psycho. (Or he’s not. Really, really not, just stressed and under pressure, things being demanded of him, people who rely on him not to crack. Or Stiles should stop seeing himself in other people.) 

Footsteps clomp down the stairs, and Isaac is back. He tosses the orange bottle to Fearless Leader, who catches it easily and shakes it, then tucks it in his jacket pocket. 

The other man Stiles doesn’t have a name for says, “There’s maybe a week of food, two if we ration carefully.” Stiles hadn’t even noticed him disappear. Sneaky. And accurate. 

“All the more reason to wait for the others.” 

“Like I said, it’s going to be a couple hours, so you all better get comfortable,” Stiles says with an air of nonchalance. He makes a show of extending his legs in front of him, crossing them at the ankles like he’s settling in. It pisses Fearless Leader off, he can tell.

“Shut up.” 

“Are you serious? I’m not going to sit here in silence for three or four hours. Sorry, buddy, not gonna happen. You do realize how boring this is going to be, right?”

“What do you suggest, then? A game of checkers?” he asks dryly. “No? So why don’t you _shut up_ before I _make_ you.”

He’s not sure how he knows, but he’s _certain_ the guy is bluffing. “I mean, we _could_ do that. Or you could stop being such an asshole and we can act like real human beings. I know it must be hard for you, so I’ll start: my name’s Stiles. What’s yours?” The thing is, he knows exactly what he’s doing: he’s humanizing himself. He’s making himself someone who can be empathized with because the best way to not be killed by someone is to make them not want to kill you. That’s how they’re going to get out of this. They’ll get these people to relax so that when Scott, Allison, and Danny come in to the rescue, they’ll have the upperhand, even if they have rather less firepower. 

Fearless Leader doesn’t answer, though, and that’s not how this is going to work. He needs to take an interest.

“This is Lydia, by the way. We’re both from California. Scott, one of our friends, and I are from Beacon Hills. Little town, you’ve probably never heard of it. Anyway, we hit the road when things went bad at the beginning, ran into Lydia and Danny—“ _and Jackson_ “—as they were getting out of L.A.” They all look at her with interest because it’s an accomplishment. The big cities had been hit the worst, population density and all of that, and it’s _impressive_ that she’s survived. “We picked up our fifth in Arizona. Would’ve stayed in the desert but, well, summer and all of that. Didn’t make it here until about six weeks ago. The family had been turned or evacuated, no telling which. It’s a nice place, though. And the bedroom walls are thick, thank God, or Scott and Allison would still be driving everyone crazy. You know how it is. Young love or hormones or whatever.” He says it because he has a feeling that Erica and Isaac are a thing, and it looks like he might be right.

“Tell me about it. _Jesus_.” But Fearless Leader doesn’t look at Isaac; his eyes turn towards the quiet one, who Stiles thinks might be his lieutenant, and Erica, who smirks a little. Curious. 

“It’s the worst, isn’t it? I’m pretty sure the car is going to come back half-full of condoms.” That’s an exaggeration, but he thinks maybe this guy might have a thorn in his side labelled “horny bastards”, and he’s going to run with it. And it kind of works. His face does this kind of weird spasm that might be a little bit of a smile. “So what’s your story?”

Fearless Leader doesn’t answer, but Erica does. “He’s from New York.” _Jesus_.

Hopefully, he asks, “State?” 

The man shakes his head sharply. “City. Brooklyn.” Well, fuck. That explains the aura of sociopathy. New York had been the worst, every knows that. The government had tried to quarantine the city, but it had cannibalized itself in the end. You didn’t _meet_ people from the city; you heard ghost stories about them. 

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he says, and he _is_ , but showing sympathy gains sympathy. 

“He picked me up first,” Isaac says. “Up in Pennsylvania. Saved my life. And then we found Erica a couple days later, in Virginia. Boyd, in Tennessee.”

“So you’re headed West, then.” Stiles watches the way he scolds Isaac with a look for saying so much. “There’s not much there, let me tell you.”

Erica scoffs and says, “No, Derek’s taking u—“

“Shut. _Up_.” _Derek_ stares her down hard. “Can we _please_ act like professionals for a moment here?” He pinches the bridge of his nose, frowning deeply. “Let’s try not talking, shall we?” 

It doesn’t last long.

“So, Derek, eh? Really goes with the whole Blue Steel thing you have going on.” The glare he gets for that could melt the ice caps. “What? I like it. I think it works for you.” Erica snorts at that. 

He’s about to keep going when the front door flies open and Scott, Allison, and Danny throw themselves in. 

“Thank G—“

“Walkers,” Danny blurts. “At least forty, probably more.” Allison barricades the door as he talks.

The whole room freezes.

“Erica, untie us. We can deal with this drama if we’re alive later,” Stiles barks, relaxing when she does as he says, even though most of what he’s saying is directed at Derek. “Okay, Derek, how much ammo do you have on you? And Danny, how far are they?”

“Not much,” Derek says at the same time Danny answers, “Two or three minutes, tops.”

“Well, fuck me. Okay,” he says, rubbing some life back into his wrists, “guys, you know what to do. Positions.” Allison, Lydia, and Danny head upstairs, up to the attic, where they’ve cut slots for the bows and a peephole for Danny so he can know when to trigger the small explosive charges he’s buried around the perimeter. Scott heads to the closet to grab his weapon, a lacrosse stick they’d broken then net off of and replaced with a long, ugly blade. (It actually makes Stiles nervous sometimes to see his occasionally-clumsy friend handle something that could decapitate someone.) Stiles reaches around Derek for his bat, then fixes his eye on each of the four intruders in turn. 

“If you can aim worth a damn, head upstairs,” he says to Erica and Isaac, then turns to Derek and Boyd. “ _We_ are heading out there into the thick of things, so put on your big boy pants.” 

His pre-battle mantra echoes in his head.

_Empathy will get someone killed._

_These are not people._

_They do not have families._

_They do not have feelings._

_They are mindless._

_They are killers._

_They must be killed._

Stiles is good at killing.

He stretches his neck from side to side, rolls his head around, and grins at them. “Let’s go say hello.”


	2. Chapter 2

He watches the herd approach from the porch.

It’s funny, when they’d first realized that the walkers have herding instincts, it had been more of a joke than anything else. And then it had stopped being a joke, that first time they’d lost someone as a group. That…Well, Allison hadn’t spoken for a good week, not even to Scott, and hadn’t really done much of anything until Stiles had sat down next to her and just said “If you don’t keep going, then you won’t go anywhere.” 

But watching them approach. This is the worst part. He hops from foot to foot, practices a few swings, breathes in little huffs through the handkerchief he ties around his mouth and nose to keep the blood and bits out of his mouth. Nervous, trying to get a little adrenaline in his system to be proactive. 

Danny will take out the first round. The charges are kind of an all-or-nothing thing, so when he’s done, he’ll join them with an axe or something. (Danny can basically handle any weapon they throw at him and Stiles is sort of extremely jealous of that fact, even though he’s technically a better shot and enamored with his bat in any case.) 

The second round goes to Allison and Lydia. This way, they can retrieve their arrows and crossbow bolts after, during clean up, and they won’t be caught in the explosions and waste ammo this way. 

Whatever they don’t catch is up to everyone else.

When the walkers get to a certain point, Stiles warns, “ _Ears_ ,” and they make an attempt to protect their eardrums from the oncoming blast. 

It hits them with a gust of wind, percussive and hot. There’s a wall of fire and smoke for a moment, but it shrinks down, remaining an after-image in his eyes for a moment or two. Only maybe fifteen or so were caught, a couple dragging themselves across the ground. The sharp scent of burnt flesh hits his nose, and he takes it as his cue to bring his bat up, ready to fight. 

Allison and Lydia have pretty good accuracy, but they can only do so much. Lydia can certainly fire faster, but she’s not quite as sharp, hasn’t been doing it for as long, and Stiles watches a few bolts either hit the ground in a little cloud of dust or miss the vital head shot. 

The leather jacket crew on the porch start shooting, making some sort of effort, but their accuracy is pretty pathetic. The shotguns are more effective because of the wider spray, but it’s not enough. Danny slips out of the door, axe in one hand, a plank of wood with a couple of nails through it in the other. He sets the plank down, wrapping both hands around the axe handle. 

“Take down the front line first and stick to the middle. We’ll take the edges and work in. You shoot any of us, and you’ll wish you’d shot yourself. Got it?” He looks at Scott and Danny. “You two take that side; I think they’re a little heavier. I’ll take the other side. Ready?”

Danny grins, dimples turning terrifying for a moment, as Scott says, “Whatcha waiting for, bro? Let’s go!” He lets out a yell and takes off, charges down the side. Stiles smiles, then hits the ground running.

The first one drops like a rock, and then he’s yelling and swinging and laughing and panting and dying as the bodies start to fall around him. This way, he doesn’t have to look at any of them long, he can just keep moving, keep destroying, and he won’t notice the little details—

_this kid in a Perry the Platypus shirt_

_this one’s hoop earrings_

_this one in his underwear_

—and he slams his bat down, sweeps in in sharp arcs that send shockwaves through his arms when they connect, spinning too fast for any of them to grab ahold of him. 

This is how survival works: you move too fast for death to catch you.

He’s good because he has to be, he’s quick because his body won’t settle for less, he’s vicious because his heart is buried in a hole he’d had to dig himself in his old backyard, cradled in his mother’s hands. 

He’s at the stage now where his ears aren’t working right, everything is about finding a place to sink a blow, looking, and he’s spinning, coming up empty. No more left. Eyes searching: living, living, living…no more left.

This is the hard part. Turning it off. Shutting himself down. Or, really, starting himself back up.

He closes his eyes.

_You’re still standing._

_You’re still alive._

_Keep going._

Opens his eyes. 

Scott is leaning on the butt of his pike, panting, nearly wheezing. “In through the nose, out through the mouth,” Stiles reminds him, then looks Danny over. He’s wiping the blade of his axe on a walker’s shirt, blood staining his arms and his own shirt. He’ll have to wash himself off carefully, make sure there weren’t any cuts, but Danny can be trusted to do a thorough inspection. And then there’s Derek. Checking out the bloody nails on the plank in his hand. He glances over at Stiles, sees him looking, gestures to him with the gory end.

“Good idea. Effective.” He’s panting, they all are, and he’s still wearing a fucking leather jacket so yeah, he’s probably a hot fucking potato right now. Which, whatever. He’s got to  _earn_ sympathy if he wants it.

“De-con procedures, guys. Let’s go,” Stiles says with a sigh, then leans back to look up at the archer slits. “We’ll love you forever if you wanna get some water! And consider yourself free of piling duties tonight!”

“We’ll be down in a minute!” Allison yells down. She’s fine with arrow retrieval, fine with burning the bodies, but she  _hates_  the dragging and piling bit. Something about skin-slippage, but the way Stiles figures, they’ve got rubber gloves and they don’t have to look at them, so it’s only as bad as you let it be. 

“Yo, leather gang barbies!” he yells at the three teenagers standing on the porch. “In the kitchen, you’ll find a box of rubber gloves grab a pair and get ready to work. You might wanna ditch anything you don’t want to get brain matter on. ‘Kay?” They look a little surprised, but he just waves them off with a hand until they go, then surveys the work ahead. 

Scott and Danny are nowhere to be seen, so they must be out back, hosing off, checking for scrapes and bites. Regular procedure. 

There’s a lot of them, this time. He hasn’t seen a herd this big in weeks. It’s going to take well into nightfall to build the pyres, given the time. A few hours. And if these assholes think they’re leaving until every goddamned body is burnt, they have another thing coming. 

Derek’s glaring at him with this weird sort of look that only gets weirder when his crew comes out of the house jacket-less and rubber-gloved. 

“Start dragging over there,” Stiles says, pointing out the spot. “No more than ten per pile. It’s still kind of hot out, so take the fleshier ones first. And  _you_ —“ his eyes settle on Derek “—come with me. We’ve gotta get cleaned up. Come along.” 

The great thing is that  _Derek actually does what he says_. Probably because Stiles has that pre-adrenaline-fade confidence that makes him think he’s  _the man_. Probably. Or because Derek has a lick of common sense and knows that you can’t just fight walkers and go on your merry way; that’s how people get infected.

When they get around to the back of the house, Scott is pulling his shirt back on and Danny’s just finishing up inspecting his arms. He turns and Scott checks out his back, gives him the go ahead. Of course, Danny doesn’t put on a shirt right away because Danny doesn’t need shirts; they need him. When Danny wears shirts, it’s only to give them the sublime joy of being on his body. It’s a well-documented phenomenon. 

When he passes by, Danny gives him a little look because he doesn’t  _really_  mind catching Stiles staring, but he wants Stiles to know he’s catching him. (They had a discussion around the time Stiles realized Lydia was pretty much entirely in love with Jackson about Danny’s type and what that meant for Stiles’ chances: they were slim to none. Which is fine, but sometimes his eyes wander when presented with shirtlessness.) But he hands Stiles the hose before heading inside, so that’s something. As Scott leaves, he makes a little look asking Stiles if he wants backup, but Stiles refuses. He’s confident about the power he has right now. 

He turns on their guest-truder, holding the hose like some kind of weapon, even though it isn’t running. “Alright, ditch the jacket, Danny Zuko. Gotta make sure you aren’t going to turn on us.” 

Derek rolls his eyes and starts to take off his jacket, wincing a little. The sight of a really horribly wasted torso in an admittedly bloody wifebeater distracts him for a moment because _damn_. Clearly, Danny’s chest is worshipping at the altar of Derek’s abs. It’s  _nice_. And yes, he gets a little…distractible when he’s coming down from an adrenaline high. It happens.

He’s so distractible that he almost doesn’t notice Derek’s arm. 

“ _Come here_ ,” he hisses in his  _serious demand_  voice. 

Derek walks towards him, frowning. “What is it?”

“Hold. Out. Your. Left. Arm.” Derek looks confused for a moment, then looks at it. Goes pale. “ _Hold it out_ ,” Stiles repeats, blood running cold. It’s too soon for this again. He’s not ready to deal with it. Never ready to deal with it, to be honest.

And there it is. Right in the middle of his forearm. Clear teeth marks. Not a full indention, but enough. More than enough. Stiles kicks the hose dial, then runs some water over the wound, washing some of the blood away. When he pulls the hose away, the bite bleeds sluggishly, and it’s  _right there_. It can’t be ignored.

“You can’t tell them,” Derek says quietly.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Stiles ask, astounded at his ridiculousness. “You have  _six hours_  before you try to bite someone’s face off! If you don’t put the bullet in your head,  _I will_. I don’t know if they do something different where you come from, but that’s how we do it here. You get bit, you do everyone the favor and take care of it.”

Derek shakes his head. “They  _need_ me. They will die without me. Someone has to protect them, guide them.”

“No,” Stiles says flatly. “No way. Not happening.”

“Look, we don’t have much, but we have a few things of value back at our base. I’ll direct you there, and that’s where we’ll do it. You can take whatever you want, just take them in.” He looks horrible and desperate, and for a second, Stiles sees this guy, young, in college maybe, when all of this happens, taking in strays as he finds them even if he can’t look after them all, and he sees these kids who are lost and everyone they know is either dead or walking and they have nothing at all.

“Fine. We’ll tell them we’re forming some sort of alliance, you tell me how to get to wherever it is you’re camped out, and I’ll  _make an argument_  to the others as to why we should take them in. That’s the best I can promise you. And only because…you know.” He gestures at Derek’s arm. “I’m doing this because you’re dying and I’m going to choose to believe that you didn’t teach your little crew to be assholes on a whim and it’s more for survival than enjoyment. Just so you know. Now. We know  _you’re_  fucked, but let’s make sure I’m not going to be dying tonight too.” He hands the hose over and unzips his hoodie, tosses it aside, then goes to turn on the water.

When he comes back, Derek is standing there, holding the hose, in shock. 

“Hey. You. Get with the program. We’ve got shit to do, buddy. Snap out of it.” 

And Derek does. He reboots, aims the water at Stiles’ arms to wash the blood off. Stiles checks himself carefully, then, satisfied, grabs his hoodie but doesn’t put it on. Not until it’s a little less…gory. It’s harder to tell because of the colors, but he knows that the cuffs are nasty looking. It’s going into the communal wash pile, first thing. 

“Come on. I’ve gotta beg off clean-up duty for you, which is  _not_  going to be easy because practice-what-you-preach and all of that. We’re taking  _my_  car, by the way. I don’t even know if you have one, but mine has floodlights on the roof in case it gets dark.” Derek doesn’t respond but, then, he doesn’t actually have to, so there’s that. “Okay, guys, here’s the sitch,” he says loudly once they get around to the front of the house. “We’ve talked about our feelings and whatnot, and we’ve declared a truce. As a peace offering, Derek’s going to show me the home base, so we’re going to go do that. We should be back by sundown.” Actually, he has no idea if that’s true, but he says it like he owns it, so it hardly matters.

“You don’t want anyone to come with you?” Scott asks. “It would kind of suck if you got murdered. No offense,” he tacks on in Derek’s general direction. 

“No, it’ll be fine. We’re working on that whole trust thing. Aren’t we?” he punches Derek in the shoulder in a way that’s meant to be friendly, and pointedly looks away to avoid the glare he gets. 

He thinks Boyd looks a little concerned, confirmed when he says, “Are you sure?” Loyalty. That’s nice. 

“I think they’re going to be just fine,” Danny says, giving Stiles a strange look. “I think they can  _handle_ each other.” Oh. Well. So there’s that. It  _does_  kind of look like they’re running off to have a post-battle fuck. That’s lovely. Could be a good excuse, though—

“There’s not going to be any  _handling_ ,” Derek says quickly. “ _All_  business.” So there went that excuse. Great.

“Yeah. Business. So we’re going. Now.” 

He grabs Derek’s good arm and throws everyone a wave, heading to his Jeep. His baby. Light of his life, fire of his loins, the best, most reliable vehicle he could possible ask for. Well, okay, so it’s not that reliable. But it’s a good car. 

“You’re fucking stupid,” he says when they get in the car. “That was a golden opportunity just waiting for us to pick up on it. My guys would be more than happy to send me off if they think I’m getting laid, and I bet you yours would’ve bought it too.”

Derek glares at him. “I don’t know how  _you_  do things, but I’m not the kind of leader who ditches people who depend on them for a little action.”

“Yeah, fuck you very much, me neither, but this looks sketchy as fuck, and I’d definitely rather them think I’m out getting some than know that I’m harboring someone who’s infected. Because we have  _rules_ , rules that we  _do not break_  about this. If they find out, if they think I’m making an exception for  _you_  of all people, then I’m not going to have their trust again.” 

“You lost someone to a bite recently.” It’s not a question. 

“Two weeks back. I nearly had to deal with it myself. He left it to the last minute even though I  _told him_ , again and again, that he needed to finish it, and, well, it almost got ugly.” He leaves out the part where Jackson was Lydia’s boyfriend and they’d always butted heads for it, and because Jackson had been a bit of a self-entitled prick, where Lydia had accused him of trying to make Jackson do it quick because he hadn’t liked him. But then, Lydia hadn’t known about his mom. Only Scott knows about that, and only in the barest sense.

Derek doesn’t say anything because  _everyone_  knows what it’s like to lose someone like that. At the beginning, it had been horrible, back before people realized what was going on. Everyone’s lost someone they knew well. 

“Just head back to the highway. Head south. It’ll be at least an hour and a half,” Derek says as Stiles hits the farm road. 

 

They don’t talk really. 

Every now and then, he’ll glance over at Derek’s arm, but he’s wearing his jacket, so it’s useless. Except for the blood curling around his fingers, oozing slowly. 

After the fifth time in two minutes, Derek makes a noise of frustration and gets his jacket off. “You happy? No rot yet.” Because that’s what happens. First, the fever, the sweating, the pale skin, and then the skin around to bite starts to rot, go puffy red and then grey. He’s not even inflamed yet. Could be a good sign. 

Except there’s no such thing as a good sign. Because it doesn’t take much. He’s heard stories of people getting infected from a drop of blood in their eye; a bite is a death sentence either way.

“You know what? I think you should cover that up,” Stiles says because it’s making him nervous. “It’s going to start to smell soon and you know….” He’s being insensitive, he is, but what else is he supposed to do? Become best buddies with the guy, knowing full well that he’s going to die tonight? Stupid. Frankly, in the grand scheme of things, Derek’s feelings about his imminent demise really don’t matter. 

“If you don’t shut up, I’ll  _bite_  you.” 

Stiles glares out of the corner of his eye and shuts up.

 

The sun is setting by the time Derek directs him to turn off of the highway. Stiles pays attention to the sequence of dirt roads he takes, knowing he’s going to have to find his way back on his own. At least he’ll have the drive to come up with a story for how he’d lost Derek. And why are they coming all the way out here just to put him down? What, is there some sort of special significance to this place for him?

As it turns out, there isn’t. Because Stiles is  _pretty_  sure that the place was once a meth lab. 

Because it’s just a fucking  _basement_. A concrete basement with tables with beakers and shit on them and the place  _reeks_ like nothing he’s ever smelled. It’s awful. And there’s sleeping bags on the floor, so it’s like, they  _live_  here. No wonder they’re trying to steal shit. This blows. 

“Nice digs,” he tries weakly.

“It’s a meth lab,” Derek answers, dry, confirming his suspicions. “Or it was. But if it’s built to withstand a possible explosion, it’s going to be safe in case of an attack. Hence, safety. Now.” Derek strips his jacket and shirt off, heading to a table at the corner of the space, which, what? And then he grabs a fucking  _power saw_. “I’m going to need you to cut off my arm.”

Stiles chokes. “Um, no-fucking- _way_  am I going to cut off your  _arm_. Jesus. What is  _wrong_  with you?”

“Look at it, Stiles.” He shoves his arm forward. “Does this look like a normal bite to you? Huh?” Stiles looks at it, wincing. Because no, as a matter of fact, it doesn’t because it’s  _oozing black goo_. Ugh.

“Dude, just put that away. That’s not normal. You need to deal with this.”

“I’m  _trying_. And to do that, I need you. To cut off.  _My arm_.” He presses the saw into Stiles’ hands. “If there’s a chance I can survive, then I have to. For them.” Stiles looks down at the saw in his hands, trying not to think about it. Catching his look, Derek yanks his belt out of the loops and ties it around his arm in a tourniquet. He’s fucking  _serious_. 

Derek grabs him by the front of his shirt, saying, “Look, if it doesn’t work, you can always kill me. But if there’s a chance that it might? I have to take it.” He drags a table between them, stops. His face goes horribly pale for a moment, then he’s keeling over, retching. Stiles can’t help it, he looks, and holy God, that is black vomit. Where does that even  _come_   _from_? “Do it. I need you to do it.  _Do it now_.”

“I don’t think I can.” Stiles is looking at the palish skin of his arm, the way it stretches around his muscle, how the tourniquet is so tight that it makes an indentation in his flesh. He wants to throw up or something. This is not something he’s ever planned on doing; he hasn’t had a chance to mentally prepare himself for surprise amputation.

“Why the hell not? I watched you cave in a walker’s skull without batting an eye. Just  _do_  it already.” His face is pinched and tight, pain horribly visible, and Stiles checks out the wound quickly, the outline of veins made visible, blackened. “Cut off my arm, or I will infect you on purpose. Do you understand?” Stiles knows he’s bluffing. There’s no way he’d leave those kids without either of them, but it’s almost… nice? It gives him an excuse, a justification to do it.

“Yeah, okay. Let’s do this.” He lowers the blade of the saw to just below the tourniquet. Has to breathe, over and over, but he’s got this. He can do this. He can—

Derek howls and falls over, hitting the floor too audibly. His body twists and writhes as he just  _yells_ , this horrible, nearly inhuman sound. 

Stiles is standing over him in only a second.

“Dude, Derek, what’s happening? Do I need to—“ And then Derek falls limp, like he’s just passed out or something. Or died. It’s possible. Stiles slaps his cheek, a little tap, experimentally, turning his head side to side. He’s alive, or at least he’s pretty sure Derek is, but his body is bathed in a cold sweat and the tattoo-like lines slow-crawling up his arm don’t look good. 

“If you hurt me for this, man, I’ll hurt you right back,” Stiles says softly before pulling his arm back and throwing a solid punch to Derek’s jaw. The force of it and the pain in his knuckles makes him fall over, but he hears Derek coughing, so it must have been worth it. But then the coughing stops and turns into this high-pitched sound, and when Stiles looks at him, Derek’s hyperventilating, body pulled taut and arching up. It turns into this soft whine, and Derek’s legs are scrabbling at the floor, fists clenched, and oh. 

There’s something horribly wrong with his arm. 

Derek goes silent, collapses, pants like he’s just outrun a herd of walkers. And he looks down…and he sees. Sees what Stiles can’t take his eyes off of. 

The bite? The death sentence he’s been carrying around until Stiles could chop it off? Yeah, it’s gone.  _Completely_  healed. There’s no trace of it. It’s not like it could have been a hallucination, either. No, it had been there, and now it’s not. Something happened.

His body must have fought it off.

Which… _what_? 

It’s not fucking possible, it’s not something he’s ever heard of happening before, but here’s Derek, pushing himself up, Derek with the unmarked arm, Derek with the abs…but also the _anti-zombie immune system_.

“Oh my God.” It’s all Stiles can say, so he says it over and over and over again.

Derek struggles to his feet, then looks down at Stiles, rolls his eyes at how his mouth won’t stop running, says, “Did you punch me?”

“Depends on how you define a ‘punch’.”

“How do you define it?” Derek’s glare makes it clear that he better have a damn good answer, but  _hello_ : his brain is still freaking out.

“Uh…a fruit drink and the best of all Kool-Aid flavors?” Derek stares for a second, menacing, then, like Stiles is a waste of his time, starts to examine his arm. With a little huff, Stiles gets himself off of the floor. “What the hell happened to you?”

“I have no idea,” he says with something like wonder as he rotates and flexes his forearm. 

“ _Did_  something happen to your arm? Or are we just hallucinating? Mass hallucination caused the Salem Witch Trials, you know. Well, okay, ergot poisoning  _technically_  caused the mass hallucination but— Wait, do we have ergot poisoning? Stupid question. Different food sources. Okay. Okay, there has to be a reason for this.” His brain is just spinning circles around itself, trying to figure out  _how_. How can the impossible happen? Derek had been bitten, now he’s not; that’s not a normal, reasonable sequence of events. It’s not a thing that happens.

Derek looks around the room like he’s trying to find something. “Thank you.” It’s quiet, barely there. 

“Don’t thank me. If I’d had a single iota of sense, I would be burning your body right now. I’m not convinced I shouldn’t kill you now anyway. Who knows if this’ll last? You could be dangerous. You could be a carrier or something.”

“There’s no such thing as carriers; if there had been, we would have heard of them somewhere. Maybe I’m just immune. It’s possible. The same way some people don’t get the flu.”

“Um, are we forgetting the part where you had a chunk taken out of your arm and now it’s totally normal? What the hell is wrong with you?” 

Derek sighs, then grabs a duffle bag and starts throwing things into it. “I have a condition. That’s all. I wasn’t certain that this would happen, but it did and I’m fine and none of your group will be in danger because of me. Now start rolling up those sleeping bags.”

Stiles looks over at the three sleeping bags on the floor, one of which is a little ways away from the other two and a little larger. He’s about to get to work when he remembers that, oh yeah, Derek has zero right to give him orders. And, you know, he hasn’t totally decided not to kill him preemptively yet.

“Why do you want me to roll up your sleeping bags? What, can’t teach your kids to do their chores?”

“No,” Derek says, throwing a heavy bag on the table, “you’re rolling them up because we’re coming with you. Or, more accurately, you’re coming with us.”

Stiles laughs. “Yeah.  _Right_. Because that’s totally happening.” Derek turns around and looks at him. His expression is firm but odd. Hesitant? No, not quite. Reluctant? Almost nervous?

“You could have killed me. You didn’t. Where I come from, we take life-debts seriously. You saved my life, so I’ll save yours. That house is nothing more than a potential target. If a crew with the right sort of firepower came along, you’d all be killed and you’d have no way to stop it. I have a safe house out west. There’s plenty of room for more, so I’m…offering. Come with us.”

Considering it, Stiles examines him for some small sign of treachery. “Fine. But you’re not doing this out of honor or whatever; you’re doing this because four is too small a number to survive. Because we have resources that you don’t, skills you don’t. It has nothing to do with my safety, so don’t pretend this isn’t about what’s best for you and yours.”

“Alright.” Derek shrugs. “You’re right. But you would do no different. Take my offer. There’s strength in numbers. We can survive  _together_.” 

“Why should I believe that you’re not going to just turn on us after taking everything we have? Why should I believe that this ‘safe house’ of yours even exists?” Derek digs through one of his bags and pulls out a map, spreads it out on the table. The table on which Stiles was going to cut off his arm. Yeah. 

It’s a map of California, that much is obvious, northern California to be precise. 

Derek points at a little section of the map. “ _This_  is where we’re going.” Stiles stiffens. Because it’s right smack dab in the middle of Beacon County, a little ways in the forest. The forest Stiles had gone on class hiking trips in a lifetime ago. And Stiles  _knows_  that forest,  _knows_  the spot Derek’s pointing to. The old Hale house. It had burned down a good five or six years earlier. Stiles had checked out the ruins on a whim before, just curious about the place, and it had been a little terrifying, especially at night, but that feels like  _ages_  ago. It’s just a collection of memories from another life, a life where his parents are alive and his biggest concern is making the lacrosse team or finding a girlfriend or something, and that’s  _not okay_. That’s  _cruel_  of him, to make him remember what it had been like before. 

“Is this some attempt to scare me? I told you where I’m from, so now you’re going to use it against me? Is that what this is?” He’s not yelling, but he’s close, so close.

“This is _my house_. This is where I grew up. It’s safe—“

“If you were telling the truth, you’d know that the Hale Estate burned down  _forever_  ago.  _There’s nothing there_.” 

Derek looks at him for a second, almost  _hurt_ , then digs into the other bag, the very bottom, and pulls out a wallet. It’s almost weird to see it; there’s no use anymore, not if there’s no money, no credit, no nothing. But then Derek’s pulling something out, a plastic rectangle, and holding it in front of Stiles’ face. It’s a driver’s license. From New York, with Derek’s picture, but that’s not really the important part. The important part is his  _last name_. 

Hale. 

Derek Hale. 

Holy shit. Stiles remembers seeing it, when he was much younger, sitting at the kitchen table as his dad did paperwork, looking at this form, must have been either custody or for an emancipated minor, with that name on it. And he  _knows_  all at once that this is real.

“They burned the house down,” Derek says with a grimace, “but there’s two levels of basement beneath. Concrete walls. Impenetrable. Humans don’t know how to find it, and walkers won’t know how to get in. It’s  _safe_.”

Stiles looks down at the map. Looks up at him. Taps his foot against the floor as he makes the decision he’s not sure he wants to make. The idea of reawakening old memories, of going _back_ , is ugly and exposed, raw. It’s not something he’d ever planned on doing. There’s no home anymore; it’s not possible to go back home. And he never wants to see his house again, the shallow graves in the back, the blood on the walls. But if they go back, he’ll have to see it. There won’t be an escape. 

But it’s not really about his feelings, is it?

“Fine. We’ll come with you.”


	3. Chapter 3

“So, are we going to talk about your little miracle back there?” Stiles asks as they head down the highway back to the house. It’s slow going. He’s got the floodlights on _and_ his high beams, but hitting a walker at sixty miles per hour does serious damage to a car. The whole idea of just getting a big SUV and mowing them down? They’d tried it once. Allison’s SUV (well, her father’s SUV, but they don't really talk about that, not after what happened in Phoenix) is dented to the extent that if they were to get in a wreck or something, everything under the hood would probably be out of commission. Between the five of them, they only have the two cars, so any damage to the SUV would make it nearly impossible to keep supplies if they have to go on the road again. Which they seem to be having to do, thanks to Derek’s little plan, and maybe it makes him selfish, but he _hates_ going on the road and that makes him less-than-happy about Derek.

“It’s not a miracle,” Derek says, and it takes Stiles a second to remember what he’s referring to because his brain won't stop running and oh yeah, he needs to get his pills back sometime.

“Really? Because the whole _avoiding-imminent-death_ _thing_ is kind of a big deal. Just saying. And the fact that you’re not _completely_ freaked out by it kind of worries me to be honest, and if we’re going to be working together here, I need to know that you’re not, like, harboring a cure or secretly some sort of superhuman being or something. Because that shit happens in movies and it always ends up fucking everything up.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Derek shift a little. “It’s complicated. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Yeah? I’ve seen some weird shit, dude; I watched a girl of Allison’s caliber fall for my super dork of a best friend, so let me tell you: _I have seen it all_. Try me.” Because honestly, that’s life’s greatest mystery. That somehow Scott charmed someone like her, someone who probably wouldn’t have looked at him twice if they’d gone to school together. Fighting for your life pretty regularly can explain a lot of things, but not how she ended up falling in mutual puppy love with the lamest asthmatic there ever was. (It's part of the reason he likes her.)

“Seen any werewolves?” Stiles looks at him, tearing his eyes off the road for a second, and meets a blunt, almost wide-eyed look. It's...honest. Believable. Weirdly so.

“I guess I have now.” 

Derek squints at him, shrinking back against his window. “I’m not joking, you know. I was being serious.”

“Um, yeah? Duh. I mean, your body fought off a bite; there’s something abnormal about you, and if that’s it, I wouldn’t be too surprised.”

“You wouldn’t be surprised.” It sounds like it’s some horribly complex idea for him to wrap his head around. 

“You do realize that we were attacked by a small army of undead creatures earlier today, right? Okay, so you’re technically a mythical being. Big whup. That’s something we deal with on a day-to-day basis. Unless it makes you dangerous to us, I don’t see how it’s a big deal. I mean, you’re not going to turn into a giant wolf on the full moon and try to kill everyone, are you? Because if you are, give us some warning so we can point you in the direction of some walkers.” It’s only half a joke; he’s asking, and he feels like Derek gets this, if he’s going to have to do something here, something violent and not specifically in line with their arrangement. 

“The moon doesn’t pose a problem for me.” There’s a little too much emphasis on the last word there, and it makes Stiles nervous. His brain makes the connections too fast and he’s tempted to punch Derek in the face when it settles.

“The other three. You turned them or whatever it is you do.” Dead silence. “You’re a fucking idiot, you know that?”

Derek practically snarls, gritting out, “ _I was trying to help them survive._ ”

“Perfect. I’m so happy you had good intentions. Clearly, _nothing_ ’s going to go wrong now. So, what, are they going to turn rabid at the next full moon? Do you even know when the next full moon _is_?”

“Pull over.”

The urgency in Derek’s tone startles him. “What? Why? Did you see something?”

“ _No_. Pull over because I’m going to kill you.”

“Oh my _God_ ,” Stiles groans. “You are _not_ blaming me for pointing out your stupid decisions.”

“It was a strategic maneuver. I needed to make them stronger so they could fight for themselves. That’s what I did. We should be able to make it to the house before the next full moon, and there are holding cells there just in case. They have enough control for now.”

“ _For now_? What does that even mean? How the hell does this shit work anyway? You can’t keep me in the dark about this; that’s not going to work if we’re going to be working together.” 

“Just don’t make them angry and everything will be fine. They’re…they’re not very good with anger yet.” He seems to notice Stiles’ look and tacks on, “There hasn’t been a whole lot of time to teach them that. I’ve had to teach them other things.”

“What, like how to use other people’s pity to take everything they have?”

Derek doesn’t respond to that, but he doesn’t really need to. Stiles’ head keeps telling him that he would do the same, that if it came down to it, he would do anything he needed to keep everyone alive. And he wouldn’t blink. He would do absolutely _anything_ , and maybe a part of him wants to pretend that there’s a line he draws, a line that Derek should have drawn, but there’s no line, no cliff for him to realize he’s leapt from, just this pull in his gut, like vertigo, the freefall into the skin of a person he never wanted to be. 

They don't talk after that because Stiles can feel their combined shame like a potent humidity, sticking to his skin. 

 

When they get back, Stiles kind of wants to punch everyone in the face. It’s ridiculous. 

They’re all sitting in the living room on various surfaces, bowls of what looks like some sort of pasta meal in their hands, and they’re all completely ridiculous. 

Scott is bro-ing it up with Isaac because Scott’s overly friendly by default. Erica and Allison don’t look _friendly_ exactly, but they have the look of two lionesses circling each other, sizing each other up, and considering how anti-social she’s been since the Panhandle, since everything, it’s basically like they’re braiding each others’ hair. Boyd is sitting with Lydia and Danny, the former of which has set her food down and, based on the few keywords he picks up, seems to be detailing her research. There are weapons in reach, sure, but no one’s actually holding them, and that speaks more about the state of things than anything else. 

“You’re back!” Scott hops to his feet. “I made food! Well, Allison made sure I didn’t burn anything, but there’s plenty left on the stove. We weren’t sure when you’d be back—“

“ _If_ you’d be back,” Erica throws in with a little smirk.

“— _When_ you’d be back, so we turned off the burner, but it shouldn’t be cold yet. So, um, how are, uh, things?”

“ _Things_?” Derek sounds sassy which, okay, sometimes Scott needs a little sass, but still. That's Stiles' job. Even though Scott is definitely on the same thought train Danny had been on.

“Things are great. We need to talk about that, actually,” Stiles says, a little nervously. “Um, how do you all feel about Brady Bunch-ing it? Derek’s got a place out west—“

“You _told_ him?” Isaac sounds _pissed_. Maybe not so good, what with the werewolf thing and all.

“ _Strength in numbers_ ,” Derek tells him, not unlike a stern father, like it's something he says often.

“Are we sure this is a good idea?” Danny asks, mostly aimed at Stiles.

Stiles shrugs, opening his arms. “That’s exactly what we’re going to discuss. This is a democracy, so we can talk about it as a group for a little bit, and then take a vote. Okay?” And then he’s being yanked by the back of his collar, heaved out the front door and thrown against it. 

“What do you think you’re doing? _We had an arrangement_.” He’s hissing and very much in Stiles’ space. All of him is, actually. Like, his entire body. (His entire _very nice_ body, but that’s beside the point because there’s business going on right now.)

“I guess you run things a little differently, but around here? We _vote_ on things. We come to agreements. Because otherwise, we’d never get anything done, and since I’m _trying_ to get things done, this is how we’re doing it.”

“They’ll never agree. They have no reason to. They won’t do it unless you force them.” Well. Apparently he takes the whole _alpha male_ thing really seriously. Which, actually, he’s going to have to ask about that, if there’s a structure, if they’re actually a _pack_ or something crazy like that. Later, though.

“They’ll agree. I know how to convince them, so don’t worry about it,” he says, making sure to make a lot of eye contact to, like, assert dominance. “Okay? You’re going to have to trust me.” Almost as soon as that comes out of his mouth, he regrets it because Derek’s face turns stony, ten times more closed-off. “Look, I know we don’t know each other and I know that you have no reason to believe a word that I say, so I take it back. I won’t ask you to trust me a single bit, but I _will_ say that I believe you are who you are, so if you say that there’s safety at that house, I’ll believe you. Because there is no way in _hell_ that any person would want to go back there unless it was their absolute last resort. And because of that, because I will do _anything_ to keep those four kids in there safe, I want to go there with you because I believe that that is our _best_ , most sustainable option, and that’s just survival instinct. So don’t trust me; trust the _instinct_.”

Derek sort of searches his face. It’s something Stiles has only read in books and never really understood until now, that someone is trying to find something on his skin or hidden underneath his features. It’s the weirdest feeling to be on the receiving end of that. Something about it makes him acutely aware of himself, makes his nerves hypersensitive, to the point that he can feel every bump of the door against his back and the awkward slant of his shoulders and Derek’s hands against his chest and Derek’s heat washing over him. It’s about to get awkward, but Derek backs away, kind of pushes off of him.

“Okay,” he says, nodding once. “Okay.” 

 

It takes ten minutes for Stiles to get things to the point that everyone’s trying to convince _him_ that it’s a good idea, and that’s with a bowl of pasta in his hands. It’s easy, though, and a part of him feels ashamed for manipulating them like this, but it comes surprisingly naturally. A couple questions here and there, supposed arguments against the little alliance that he knows will get shut down hard. Good ones, too, like “How long can we last here before we have to start reaching for supplies from towns further out?” and “How suitable is this soil for sustaining agriculture?” 

By the time he’s finishing dinner, everyone’s on board with the idea, including Derek’s little wolf pack. And then they’re planning, organizing, who’s driving, who’s in what car, how are they communicating (Stiles has a small dufflebag of walkie-talkies he’d lifted from the Sheriff station when he and Scott had first set out), what supplies are going in what car, how are they rationing, and, finally, what route to take. The last one turns into Stiles, Derek, Lydia, Danny, and Boyd hovering around the kitchen table, a highway map of the states laid out, for hours while everyone else starts packing and eventually go to bed. It turns into Derek and Stiles debating the order of their caravan and finally making a rotating schedule for who will be in what car when because neither of them want one of the three cars at their disposal to contain people from only one group, and then Derek’s arguing that some of the food supplies should go in his car for fairness’ sake and Stiles ends up conceding the point as long as none of Derek’s kids drive his Jeep because that is a level of trust that is extended to very, very few individuals. 

By the time Stiles realizes that’s it’s fucking late and they’re going to be driving all day tomorrow, his eyes are dried out and his body is feeling the fatigue that the adrenaline from earlier had pushed away. It's settled into him, this solid ache in his muscles, his bones.

The lights are out in the kitchen and the living room, just the stairs and the bare bulb hanging over the table left on. He sighs and tries to pop his neck, then smirks at the sight of Derek’s three little wolves on the pull-out couch, all curled together like little spoons. 

“They’re awfully cute. I can see why you keep ‘em,” he says just loudly enough to be audible. “You gonna join them?”

“Are there any empty beds?” Derek looks tired, when Stiles looks at him, and seems to be realizing it, too. 

“Sorry to disappoint. It’s a two-bedroom kind of place. I share a room with Lydia and Danny. Kids’ room, so unless you want to share the top bunk…” 

Derek grimaces and shakes his head. “No way in hell.” 

“Great. Have fun snuggling. I’ll see you in the morning, bright and early.” He kind of half-waves, not really sure what the goodnight protocol is for them. 

Danny and Lydia are curled up together, which, whatever, he’s not pissed off or jealous or anything. So neither of them wants to cuddle with him. Whatever. Not much he can do about it. It’s fine. It’s life. That’s how it goes. People Stiles likes don’t like him back. The dead might be walking, but at least the simple rules of the universe are intact. 

 

Stiles awakens in the dark to the soft creak of a door opening slowly. His body freezes. _Are they going to kill them? Was that the plan all along? That they wait for Stiles and his friends to fall asleep and then kill them?_

Footsteps, soft and slow, creeping.

No. They’ll go for Danny and Lydia first, and that’s not alright. 

Stiles snaps up into a sitting position, raising his hands under his blankets. “Stop where you are. I’m armed and I won’t hesitate to shoot you.”

In the dark, Derek stills like he’s been spooked. “I wasn’t planning on threatening anyone.” 

“Then _why are you here_?” Stiles slumps, heart pounding still even though his fear has been replaced by confusion. 

Derek shrugs. Glances at the bunk below. Slips his hands into his pockets.

“Oh my God. You came to snuggle, didn’t you?” Derek looks away, rolling his shoulders a little. “Jesus. Get your ass up here.” 

He looks shocked for a second, but he moves quietly to the ladder, moving up it slowly.

“You know, if I hadn’t woken up when I did, I probably would have actually killed you. You do realize that it would have been _super_ creepy to just pop into someone’s bed for a snuggle, right? Like, be _yond_ creepy. Jesus.” 

Derek slinks up towards the pillow, says, “But you let me in.”

“I have been left out of too many snuggles to push someone away if they’re _probably_ not actively trying to cause me bodily harm.”

“I didn’t come to snuggle, you know,” Derek says, like this is an important point to make. “Isaac kicks. There wasn’t enough room on the pull-out. You’re skinny. Don’t take up much room.”

“Right. Yeah. That’s it. Just don’t get bad-handsy. Keep them above the belt, please.” Stiles turns over onto his side, letting Derek have the spot closest to the wall and a little bit of the blanket. A moment later, there’s a warmth against his back, but it’s not Derek’s chest, no, Stiles can feel his spine. So that’s how it’s gonna be. Okay. That’s okay. Not like Stiles especially wanted to cuddle someone who’s threatened him multiple times in the past twenty-four hours. And _is a werewolf_ , so he’s potentially dangerous and clearly not a great cuddle buddy. Good thing they’re clear on that one.

 

When Stiles wakes up the next morning to the first strains of light through the window, neither he nor Derek have moved. On his end, that’s normal; he sleeps like a soldier, drops right into it and snaps right out of it at the slightest disturbance, barely moves. It’s part of the survival instinct, he knows it, because he doesn’t sleep nearly as much any more. The body will force itself into a more restful sleep if it knows it isn’t getting much. Adaptation, one of life’s great wonders. (He doesn't think too much about how it used to be, not having to constantly _adapt_.)

Derek’s still asleep when he first wakes, but when Stiles stretches his legs out, he stirs. Stiles looks over his shoulder even though he knows he can’t really see him from the angle he’s at, but for some reason, the motion means something. The attempt is important. There's no etiquette for this, but he feels like he needs to make some up. Or not. Because it won't be happening again, so he's not going to get used to it, not going to get attached. This is not a stray he's taken in; it's a guy, a man, who might be almost as dangerous as he is.

“You should probably skedaddle," he says quietly so as to let Lydia and Danny sleep. "Don’t want anyone to start getting ideas about us. Could be awkward. Just saying.”

With a little groan, Derek sits up and scoots down towards the ladder. It puts this weird image into his head, Derek leaving his bed, and he doesn’t want to think about it too much.

“To be clear, this was a cuddle one night stand? Because next, it’s spooning, and then there’s negotiations about who gets to be the big spoon, and then that carries over into other stuff, and everyone starts to wonder why we’re always fighting, and I think it’s just best if we don’t do… _that_.”

Derek nods once and slinks out of the room. Wearing jeans. Because he’s apparently the sort of person who sleeps in jeans. No telling where those jeans have been. Clearly, any further cuddle opportunities are not happening because Stiles is not the sort of person to willfully curl up with people who wear jeans to bed, so that would not be happening. He _could_ take his jeans _off_ , but then there would be, well, _legs_ , and maybe that’s not so good either.

But as he gets up, he starts to think about how it might be a nice gesture to let their new friends do laundry before they set out. He didn’t exactly remember seeing a Maytag in their little Breaking Bad set-up. Everyone likes to get the blood out of their clothes every now and then, and it's even better if they don't have to work for it.

Derek has already woken them all up by the time he gets downstairs, so he kind of points them in the right direction of the laundry area before heading to the kitchen to put together a nutritionally-sound, ration-efficient breakfast. Which is an art, by the way. And he makes sure to tell everyone that when they come for their plates. Okay, there’s jerky in there, but they can’t really complain about that because it has _protein_ and they’re not exactly going hunting these days, so that’s something they can deal with. And Christ, these new kids look at their plates like it’s some kind of feast, like they’re not used to eating more than a meal a day. It makes him happy seeing people happy, even though he knows it won’t last long. Or maybe _b_ _ecause_ he knows it won’t last long. It never lasts long.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang hits the road.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the wait!!!

It goes like this: Team Scallison have Erica and Isaac in their backseat, Stiles gets Boyd as his shotgun and Queen Lydia sprawled across what she can conquerof the two-and-a-half-small-children backseat of the Jeep, and Danny is with Derek, who also has all of his group’s stuff and about a day’s worth of food. There are walkie-talkies in each car, so theoretically, they have a means of communication without having to pull over any more than necessary. Stiles is leading and Allison’s taking the rear because he’s got the worst fuel economy of the bunch and they’re stuck at his optimal speed. Also, they probably have the highest cumulative IQ of the three cars, thanks to Lydia, as well as the most authority, so it makes sense that any and all navigation is left to them. Well, to Lydia and Boyd because Stiles has learned the hard way that you _do not_ take your eyes off the road to read a map. 

It’s only an hour before one of the walkie-talkies on the dash bursts static and Scott’s voice crackles out.

“Stiles? You there?” 

Sighing, Stiles snatches it up before Boyd can get it and presses the _talk_ button. “Come on, man. You gotta say _over_. Over.”

“I will say _over_ as many times as you want if you’ll trade with us. They’re too much,” he says, and Stiles can hear muffled yelling in the background as Scott tacks on, “ _Over_.” 

“What’s the problem exactly? Over.” Lydia leans forward, hover over his shoulder, and Boyd seems to be listening very casually.

Scott makes a weird noise, then says, “She keeps saying these _things_ and asking these _questions_ and _I did not sign up for this_. Over.” It’s possible that Scott’s being a little bit of a baby, but Erica also seems to be a bit of a pusher, so who knows. Either way, it’s really for the best that they don’t stop any more than absolutely necessary.

“Hold tight for another hour, ‘kay? We’ll switch up at the first pit stop. If it gets serious, then we’ll re-negotiate. Over.”

“Fine. Over.”

Stiles sighs, then sets the walkie-talkie back and grabs the other. “Yo. Derek. Danny. How you guys doing? Over.” 

It’s a moment or two before Danny replies. “Fine. What’s up? Over.”

“Possible issue in the other car concerning Scott and Erica. If it gets too bad, we may have to reconfigure. Just a heads-up. Over.”

There’s some crackling, and then Derek’s voice comes in. “What sort of issue? You better keep yours in line.” Stiles rolls his eyes.

“I don’t like your tone, mister, and I’m not going to tell you anymore until you agree to use standard walkie-talkie protocol. _Over_.” Stiles grins to himself, looks over at Boyd, who is unamused. “Is he always such a sour patch kid?” Boyd doesn’t answer.

“Jesus Christ, just tell me what the fuck is going on, Stiles.”

“ _Say it_. Over.”

“I’m going to kill you.” Then, after a second, “Over.”

Stiles wiggles his eyebrows at Boyd, then holds down the button. “Well, _now that you’re using our agreed-upon walkie-talkie protocol_ , I can tell you that I really have no idea what’s going on, only that Erica is possibly provoking Scott. He’s easily provoked, I get it, but maybe for the sake of peace, talk to her? I don’t want to have to stop until the time we agreed upon. Over.” 

It’s a moment before the reply, and then it’s Danny. “He’s going to talk to her. Over.”

Stiles shakes his head at the walkie-talkie, then glances over at Boyd. “Has he always been like this?”

The look he gets is enough of an answer. 

“I have to ask,” Lydia says, her tone making it clear that Stiles is not going to particularly enjoy her line of questioning, “but is it really such a good idea to get involved with them? No offense,” she throws at Boyd, “but think of it from our perspective and you’d be hesitant too.”

“Look, Derek and I are after the same thing, so yeah, I think it’s a good idea,” he answers. Diplomacy here is a bit of an issue, but he’s working on it.

“Okay, and would your answer be the same if you weren’t sleeping with him?” Boyd snorts, but Stiles just grinds his teeth.

“I’m _not_ , so _yeah_ , my answer is the same.”

Boyd’s head quirks a little. “Really? Because he definitely didn’t sleep with us last night. My bet’s that you know something about that.”

He can _feel_ Lydia’s look. “It’s not like that. Everyone else was doubled up, and it wasn’t fair of me to hog a bed all to myself. It was economical. That’s all. And even if it wasn’t, it wouldn’t be anybody’s business because we’ve got the same goals here, so no harm, no foul. Besides, I know about Derek’s _condition_.” The last part is said to Boyd much more quietly, and even if Lydia will want to know what, exactly, that condition is, he can keep a secret. Even if she uses her feminine wiles. After a while, she won’t press him. 

“He told you?” Boyd asks, glancing back at Lydia quickly. 

“Yeah. About him. And other things. Because we’re on the same side. For now. It’s at everyone’s best advantage to work together, so that’s what we’re going to do for as long as that stays true. Alright? You need us, and we need you not to brutally murder us. It’s balanced.” Boyd raises an eyebrow, but he seems to accept that as good reasoning. Lydia is not satisfied, however.

“Okay, what the _hell_ is going on here? What aren’t you telling us, Stiles?” 

He takes a deep breath before responding. “Look. I’m going to ask you to trust me on this one. Just for now. I can’t tell you without Derek’s permission, but I’m telling you, I wouldn’t be doing anything if I didn’t think it was our best option. I swear.”

“Fine. I’m not letting it go and I’m not going to forget about it, but I’ll give you three days. Then you’re going to tell me, or I’ll tell everyone else you’re hiding something from us. It won’t go over well, and you know it. They’ll come to conclusions about why and it’s going to get ugly. We clear?” Stiles glances at her in the rearview. There’s this little steel curving her mouth, and he knows she’s serious and, morally, she has the higher ground. 

“I’ll talk to Derek about it. It’s not my secret to tell. That’s all I’m going to say about it. Just don’t go telling everyone, alright?”

She nods. He glances at Boyd, who gives him a little shrug that he reads as understanding. Stiles is going to have to have an interesting conversation with Derek in the very near future. 

 

The storm hits them in the middle of the afternoon. Stiles had watched the clouds gathering over the horizon for a little while, expecting a cloudburst, the kind they were used to, but the sky had turned dark and near green long before any rain had begun to fall. It looks like night by the time the clouds open up, but he knows it’s only maybe five or so. It’s going to be ugly, Stiles can tell. They need to stop somewhere soon, settle in for the night. 

He tosses one of the walkie-talkies back to Lydia, the one for Scott and Allison’s car. “Tell them we’re stopping at the next viable shelter. I don’t want us caught in a tornado or something.” He presses the button on his own device. “Derek? Come in, Derek. Over.”

The walkie-talkie squawks at him. “Tell me we’re going to stop soon. Over.”

“Right-o. I saw a sign a couple miles back for a gas station. A little ways down. We’ll stop and evaluate? Over.” He can hear Lydia relaying the message to Allison a second after him. 

“The sooner, the better. I don’t like the look of those clouds. Over.” 

 

They come up on the gas station a few minutes later, slow, but pick up speed almost immediately after; the place shows clear signs of having blown, windows gone, pumps gone, everything black and charred. 

With each mile, Stiles gets a little more nervous. The rain comes down harder. His windshield wipers hadn't been exactly new from the start, but they’re barely hanging on. The whole caravan has slowed to maybe thirty on the slick road. Stiles can barely see twenty feet ahead, even with his high beams. He remembers the floodlights on the roof and flicks them on, but they still can’t see far. 

They almost miss it.

It’s the golden arches that allow him to pick it out. 

“Boyd, Lydia, tell them we’re stopping here and to stay in the car. That I want Derek, Danny, and Allison with me to check it out. Everyone else stays in the car, doors locked. Got it?” 

He slows and pulls into the little parking lot as Boyd and Lydia do as he says. His bat is down by Boyd’s feet and when he stops, he pulls it into his lap. Boyd gives him a sharp nod, and Stiles checks one of his side mirrors, sees the driver’s side door of Derek’s Camaro being nearly flung open. 

“Sit tight,” Stiles says, mostly to Lydia, who he knows won’t stay behind unless he specifically tells her to, and with a deep breath, opens his door. 

The rain hits him like a wave, thick and stinging because of the wind, but he pulls up his hood and gets out as quickly as possible. Lydia leans over and locks the door behind him. 

Stiles turns back to Derek, whose collar is flipped up. He pumps his shotgun as Danny gets out of the car with an axe. A cold, wet moment later, Allison joins them with a crossbow. 

“Let’s do a perimeter. Derek, Danny, head around back through the kitchen. Allison and I will take the front. Got it? Let’s go.”

Stiles is practically twitching for the whole ten minutes it takes to do a thorough sweep, but it’s all clear. The plumbing doesn’t work, neither does the power, but it’s out of the rain, at least, and they have a camp stove to cook on, enough water for a few days. Boyd’s the only one who’s seen a tornado, and he tells them that the bathrooms should suffice if that’s what it comes down to. 

As everyone starts settling in, Stiles stares out the windows, watching the storm. He feels a shift near him and turns to see Derek, his eyes glued to the downpour. 

“If this doesn’t pass in a day or two, we’re going to have a problem. This place is too difficult to fortify. Too much glass,” he says in a low voice. Stiles glances back at the group where they’re arguing over what to make for dinner. 

“It shouldn’t last that long. If it does, we’ll deal.”

They stand there, silent, for a moment before Derek kind of shrugs a little and says, “There’s a shed or storehouse of some sort out back. It’s padlocked, but there might be something useful out there.”

“Yeah?” Stiles looks back, sees how Scott and Lydia are taking control of the situation, his body humming with unspent adrenaline. “I need to talk to you anyway. Privately.” Derek gives him this unreadable sort of look that Stiles _thinks_ he can actually read but doesn’t _want_ to, but then he’s turning and slipping away. All Stiles can think to do is follow, bat in hand. 

Derek looks impossibly broad in the rain, the dark shape of his shoulders spanning continents in Stiles’ mind. He’s following, half-jogging to keep up because Derek walks _fast_ , and there is, indeed, a little shed out behind the parking lot. The cold rain burns his skin where it touches him, but he holds his bat at the ready as Derek does something to the padlock. That something being, apparently, wrenching it open with superhuman strength. Because that’s a thing that can happen. 

He stands back a little as Derek yanks open the door. It’s dark inside, dark outside, but the overpowering stench of rotten food hits them hard, and Derek slams the door shut again, bending over nearly in half for a second before making a sound like he’s trying to clear his throat. 

“Right. So. That was a fail. But on a related note, do you guys have some sort of supersenses or something? Because that would be _way_ cool.” The way Derek glares at him confirms it. “Okay, but about all of that, we do need to talk, and I don’t want to get wet doing it. Come on.” He nods over at the overhang for the drive-thru window, desperate to get out of the rain. Looks like Derek is down with that plan. Thank goodness. 

Stiles tries to wring out his hood a little once he gets under the awning, oddly entranced by the way Derek brushes the water off his jacket. Derek looks up, eyebrows raised like he’s expecting something.

“You wanted to talk? Talk.”

“Oh yeah. So this whole thing where you’re all werewolves and I can’t tell anyone? Yeah, that’s not going to work so well.” Derek takes off his jacket, revealing just a wife-beater and his ruggedly ungodly physique, and Stiles’ mouth kind of stops for a split second. “I mean, Lydia knows I’m keeping something from her. She’s given me an ultimatum. Three days. I think you should be the one to tell them. Or at least be there. It’s your secret not mine— oh my God, what do you think you’re _doing_?” Derek’s just pulled his shirt over his head which is _what_. He rolls his eyes as he starts toeing off his boots. 

“ _Someone_ had to make sure his pack was taken care of this morning. I didn’t exactly get a slot in the shower schedule.”

“What are you— You can’t just start stripping in the middle of nowhere! We are having a _conversation_.”

“No, _you_ ’re having a conversation. You’ve already made up your mind about what you want to do, and now you’re asking my permission. I’m not giving it. You won’t like what happens if you tell them. Do I need to make myself any clearer?” Stiles really can’t answer because _Derek is taking off his pants_. He smacks a hand over his eyes.

“I’m sorry, _yes_. Yes, you do because it’s kind of difficult to tell if you’re threatening my life or not when you’re _stripping_.”

“Then, _to be clear_ , I _am_ threatening your life.” His voice sounds like he’s moving away and Stiles, well, Stiles _peeks_. And gets an eyeful. Of Derek’s back. Because he’s walking into the rain like he doesn’t give a single fuck which is just…it’s weird. But maybe it’s not for werewolves? Maybe this is something they do? Take showers in the rain? 

Stiles isn’t really sure what he’s doing, but he’s unzipping his hoodie, unable to take his eyes off of Derek rubbing the rain into his skin. His hands are shaking, maybe from the cold, maybe not, and he fumbles with the zipper because of it, but he sheds the layer and doesn’t know what to do. 

Shivering, he walks up closer to the edge of the awning, yells, “I’m not done with you yet! You can’t just walk away! We do need to talk about this!” Derek twists to look at him, making Stiles’ mouth go numb. Jesus H. Christ, people should not be allowed to look like that. 

“You wanna talk? Then come over here and talk. Otherwise, it can wait.” He hears a challenge and something else in his tone, and it’s maybe the something else that has Stiles yanking off his clothes in a mad rush. His thumbs hit the elastic band of his boxers and he stops because there’s a limit to his bravery and that limit is pure skin, so barefoot, he steps out into the rain. It sends a chill through him. The asphalt’s cold against his toes and his boxers are cold as they start to stick to his skin and his fingers are cold and numb, but there’s something hot in his chest. It makes him reach out for Derek’s shoulder like he can’t stop himself.

A warm hand wraps around his wrist like a vice, and Derek’s right there, their arms between them, and the rain catches in Derek’s eyelashes before it hits his cheeks and slips off his chin, around his jaw, down his neck, and no, Stiles has something to say, he knows he does, that’s what he’s doing here. 

“Let’s talk,” he croaks, throat oddly dry. “I don’t care if you threaten me—“ He’s forced to take a step back as Derek steps forward, pushing him by his hold on Stiles’ wrist. “—I mean it, I’m not afraid of you.”

“Then why is your heart racing?” Their eyes are level, and Stiles can’t look away. His words weigh on Stiles' shoulders, in the pit of his belly, in the frantic beat of his heart. If he were someone else, he’d flirt or maybe run, but he can’t do either, can only stand there with rain running into his open mouth and a half-formed image of what he'd like to do that he doesn't quite understand.

But Derek steps forward and he steps back. And Stiles' free hand is reaching out for the curve where Derek’s shoulder starts, feels slick skin and the warmth humming from beneath it. He thinks their chests would be touching if it weren’t for Derek’s grip on him between their bodies, and he’s not sure if he likes it more this way or not. Or if it even matters. They're so close, it really doesn't. And it feels like it's closer than he's ever been to another person, because of the context, the lightning charge in the air, like maybe he could wrap Derek up inside of his skin.

It’s raining and the world is ending and Stiles remembers for the first time in months that he’s never so much as kissed anyone. 

When it comes down to it, down to Derek's gaze twitching towards his lips, it doesn’t really matter. 

Their mouths are on each others’ in a second, and it’s more like a continuation of their fight than a proper kiss, so it’s okay. Stiles knows how to fight with his mouth. It doesn’t feel so foreign. 

And then it does. 

Because attraction feels completely different when he’s able to do something about it, different in that it’s almost the same but not quite and he would try to put his finger on _why_ that is, but he can’t bring himself to care enough. He’s too busy trying to do the right thing with his mouth, which is to basically mimic whatever the hell it is Derek’s doing, to really _touch_ or _explore_ but he can feel warm-cold hands skimming up his back and sides. His own hands can only hold onto Derek’s neck, but he thinks they might be moving or something, twisting around, and then he’s not quite so cold. Derek’s tongue teases around the inside of his mouth, wraps around Stiles’, and he thinks he might be panting or something into Derek’s mouth. Maybe that’s terribly uncool? Well, Derek’s not stopping so it must not be too bad. 

His back hits something solid— _a wall_ , his mind supplies dumbly—and it jars him for a moment, long enough for Derek to move down to his neck and _suck_.

“Oh my God, what are you doing?” He just keeps right on going though. “Are you a vampire now? Was the whole werewolf thing just a clever ruse to hide the fact that you’re actually a sparkly—“

Derek pulls away to make a face at him. “Will you _shut up_?”

“Okay, _I’m sorry_ , didn’t know you were so touchy.” Derek licks up to his jaw, which kind of makes him realize just what’s going on. “Wait a second, are you trying to shut me up? Is this your version of a subject change? What, someone tries to talk to you about something you don’t like, you shove them against a wall and— you know, with the— yeah—“ It turns into some horribly embarrassing sound because Derek’s teeth are _biting_ and that is…not alright. “Okay, no, we’re not turning me into a werewolf as a diversionary tactic! We need to talk about…about...I have no idea what we need to talk about.”

“ _Good_.” 

Stiles is about to say something to that when Derek pushes down his boxers to about halfway down his thighs and yeah, okay, that’s more of him joining the party than he would have anticipated. Not that…well, he’s not going to be embarrassed about how reactive he’s been to Derek’s attention. Nope, that’s perfectly normal and to be expected for a sixteen-year-old boy. He has zero shame about it, absolutely none.

(Okay, he has a little shame, but that’s because he’s pretty sure he’s had a semi since Derek pulled off his jacket.)

“Maybe we should—“

“Are you _seriously_ not done talking by now?” He mutters something that sounds sort of like, _Gonna give me a complex or something_. Stiles is not stupid. He will not be seduced out of…whatever it is he’s going to remember he needs to argue with Derek over. Something about werewolves. Yeah. Wait….

Stiles slaps his hand over Derek’s mouth. “Agree to tell them. Or at least to let _me_ tell them. It’s not fair if you’re all dangerous and I’m the only one who knows—”

“One week. Final offer: one week and this conversation ends _now_.”

“What if it doesn’t end now? What if I just keep—“ Derek’s mouth closes over his, one of his hands tilting Stiles’ head back for easier access, and he knows he _should_ be upset, but something in him just gives up the fight at the slick press of Derek’s tongue. How it seems to be scooping bits and pieces of him out like it's nothing. Not to mention the weight, hot and solid, of his entire body pressing Stiles against the wall. And yeah, that’s a dick. Right there, right against his hip bone, that would be another man’s erect penis. Half a semester of health class and the aborted, tentative beginnings of an interest in gay porn did not prepare him for this. He does not know handjob etiquette, if that’s even a real thing. Or even if that’s all Derek’s expecting. He is so, _so_ far out of his depth, it’s not even vaguely funny. 

Stiles pulls away from the kiss, sliding a hand over Derek’s mouth before he can try again. He gets a very furrowed brow for his efforts.

“Look, I think we should be very clear about what’s going on here. So that we’re on the same page.” Something in Derek’s eyes softens and changes. He takes a step back. Which…well, it’s not exactly what Stiles had been hoping for. All of him (some parts more than others) is very much on board with the touching and kissing and everything, so no, that’s not cool. 

“Sometimes I forget that humans aren’t as strong. I’m sorry if I—“

“Oh my God, _no_ , that’s not what I meant. Not at all. Not at _all_.” 

Derek raises an eyebrow, then moves them both lightning fast. “This is better?” It almost seems like it’s more for his own benefit, the change in position: he’s flipped them around so _his_ back is against the wall and Stiles is pressed against his front. 

“Yeah, I— Just, let’s not go further than a couple of handies?” Derek nods, eyes glued to Stiles’ mouth, his hands slipping around Stiles’ back and down, down, down to his ass, pulling their bodies closer. That’s something he’s _totally_ on board with, the way his dick fits against Derek’s stomach because that is _nice_. Fuck, really _really_ nice. Stiles can’t help but roll his hips a little, try to get a rhythm going. Derek’s fingers dig into the meat of his ass which really should not feel so good, and it’s probably why he has trouble finding Derek’s mouth at first, why his lips hit his jaw, scrape against his stubble, his teeth biting at Derek’s lips. 

But actually _kissing_ takes too much effort, he realizes pretty quickly. It’s not going to happen, not if he’s going to get off, not if Derek’s going to get off, judging by the noises he’s making. 

Stiles forgoes the effort in favor of panting in the hollow under the corner of Derek’s jaw, groaning roughly when Derek shifts a thigh between his and hauls him in by the ass. Which, alright, feels like the kind of thing that if he did it again a couple of times would have Stiles coming all over them both, but the bit of strength and the fact that Derek’s hands are completely molded to his ass are a little surprising. Well, the surprising thing is more how much he likes it. How much he likes the way they move together, how they fit, how even though what they’re doing is nothing more dignified than rutting against each other, it feels like their bodies were made to lock together like this. And how the taste of Derek’s skin is still discernible under the taste of ozone and petrichor.

No, Stiles isn’t going to last, not even close, not with Derek’s hands grabbing him like this, like he’s something to be possessed, not with this sweet friction. 

He might be hissing nonsense against Derek’s neck, something too full of praise for him to not deny later, but his teeth clamp down when it hits him and he thinks maybe the hand that had been dipping into the crack of his ass pushes the tip of a finger into him, maybe it's nice, but his brain is overwhelmed trying to process everything and it's in pieces and he’s trying to get ahold of his breathing. It’s not like he doesn’t feel it, though, that Derek’s still grinding against him in the most pitiable excuse for a rhythm and that he lets out this noise like he’s choking on something that’s trying to claw its way out. It sounds horrible and kind of beautiful, but Stiles’ head is sloppy so he’s not really the best judge. 

The rain doesn't let up any. It pours and pours and thunder rolls and cracks somewhere in the distance.

Stiles is the one to peel away first, to step out of his boxers so he doesn’t trip and step into the rain to wash the jizz off his belly. He doesn’t look at Derek when he does it, makes a point not to, and the rain clears his head a bit. It’s a mistake, that’s for sure. They shouldn’t have let themselves act like that, like teenagers…well, to be fair, Stiles _is_ technically a teenager, even if he’s been feeling old as dirt for ages now. 

But not right now, naked in the rain. Now, he feels small and impossibly young in a way he’s never felt in his life. He knows it’s not a big thing, not in the grand scheme of what’s been his life, but he knows that a year ago, this would have been _huge_. And he can feel the disappointment his past self would have felt in him now. Against a fucking _McDonalds_. He’d had his first mutual orgasm against a fucking McDonalds. The utter class. 

He laughs. Standing there, he laughs and laughs and the rain pours down his throat, makes him cough, but it’s all just too fucking funny. The whole situation. Everything. He’s miles away from where he’d thought he’d be right now.

Literally. Figuratively. Psychologically. 

No one’s going to hold his hand and tell him he’s alright. No one’s going to ask him how he’s feeling. No one’s going to care. The world has not been altered. He is nothing special, and somehow, that makes it okay. He’s just a blip. _This_ is just a blip. It doesn’t mean anything. No one’s been changed. He hasn’t changed. It's comforting, even. He’s not different or important.

“Yo, Mr. Classy,” he says, ducking under the awning. “You might want to clean yourself up, bro. The dried semen look isn’t really in this year.” Derek glares at him, a mixture of surprise and puzzlement, as he starts getting dressed.  “You heard me. Let’s try not to look _entirely_ post-fuck. It’s not good for my reputation.” 

He watches Derek’s back as he walks out into the rain, almost ashamed at the way his dick twitches at the sight, but it’s all fine. He’s not going to play a role here. He’s not some blushing princess who just got deflowered. No, he left princess territory behind back when he'd watched his mother turn feral and ravenous. Maybe in another life, he’d get to freak out, or even just stop for a moment to _think_ about it, but here, now, hesitation can be a death sentence. He doesn’t get to stop moving. He’ll never stop moving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I am going to try very, very hard to update much more frequently. Mostly because NaNoWriMo is coming up and I know I will not update at all in November (I'm sorry!). But I also have a lot of work because I'm going to school for writing so I have a ton of writing projects I'm working on right now and this keeps getting set on the back burner for my school work, but I WILL NOT abandon it, and I hope you don't either!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M ALIVE, GUYS. ALSO I am going to be working on this a bit because I really want to write a Scrubs AU and I refuse to start that until I finish this so THIS WILL BE FINISHED PROBABLY SOMETIME THIS YEAR. 
> 
> anyway
> 
> see notes at end for warnings etc

Stiles looks normal when he comes back inside. Normal and wet. Very wet. He rubs the water out of his hair at the door, feeling oddly like a dog. 

“Bro, where you been?” Scott asks. “Dinner’s almost ready.” 

“Derek wanted to check out the shed out back. I stopped to watch the storm. I think he’s trying to figure out how to lock this place down.” He’s not actually sure what the cover story is; he hadn’t made eye contact with Derek after, not really, just told him to wait a few before coming in. Can’t be too obvious. It wouldn’t go over so great if it got out that they’d fooled around. No one would trust them. Motives would be doubted. Communal sense of betrayal. It would be a sure-fire way to split everyone up, and their chances were slimmer in smaller groups. 

Lydia looks at him with judgement. Like she knows. She probably does. Not much gets past her. It’s a great quality when he’s not on the receiving end. (One day, in the distant future, he’s going to ask her if she’d have babies with him because they’d be _smart_ goddammit and they’d probably survive better than any other kids out there, but he’s not sure how to phrase it without seeming lovesick or misogynist or both.)

Something smells good, though. “What’s cookin’?” Boyd and Allison have the two little camp stoves set up on one of the red tables, stirring a couple of pots. While everyone else pretends not to circle like buzzards. 

“Rice and Campbell’s Chunky,” Allison says with a smile.

“Oh my God, you are my new favorite person. I didn’t realize your last scavenging trip was _that_ successful. Let me love you!” He rushes over and very dramatically kisses her on the cheek. Allison usually handled their supply lists, and she really just told him when they needed to go out, but he was not informed there was _Chunky_. And _rice_. They hadn’t had rice in _weeks_. 

Behind him, the door opens, letting in the sound of the storm. 

Erica, sitting on the front counter with her back against a cash register, says, “There you are. Your _new friend_ just pissed his pants.” 

“Shut up,” Stiles hears, then the sound of water hitting the floor. Nope, he’s not going to look at Derek. Not until he says something important. Won’t pay him special attention. “It’s getting dark.” That makes Stiles look up, but not at him, at the world behind the windows. It’s dark, but in that afternoon storm sort of way, when the sky should be bright but the clouds are heavy, in the way that’s only really dark because it defies expectations. Night will look bright if the storm continues, he thinks. It’s odd, though, that Derek would state the obvious. 

Stiles considers saying something to fill the silence, but Derek beats him to the punch.

“If food’s taken care of,” he says, walking over to them with long, wide strides, “then what’s our watch schedule? Plumbing? Tornado safety plans?” He raises an eyebrow, accusing, as he looks around at the dead-silent group. He pays special attention to his little gang. “Of course, it would be _idiotic_ of me to assume you’d do something practical without someone breathing down your necks.” It seems like a lecture they’ve heard before, but it makes Stiles and everyone else in his group a little uncomfortable, he notices.

“We can talk about that stuff over dinner. No one’s going to die in the next ten minutes.” He wants to tack on _Calm your tits_ but he’s trying to respect Derek’s authority over his kids, and something tells him that wouldn’t go over well. But Derek doesn’t like his effort at diplomacy, either. He aims a long look at Stiles like he’s sizing up a challenge, but with a weird tinge to it, almost like the surprise of an unexpected failure. Stiles isn’t sure what that means, but he doesn’t think he likes it. 

“Well, _that_ was awkward,” Allison says. “We should be done here soon. Isaac, how’d the bowl search go?” 

He shrugs with his little bad boy air of nonchalance. “ _Cups_ is how it went. And all the plastic cutlery your little heart could desire.” He smirks a little, and it’s the kind of expression that almost reminds Stiles of Jackson in a bad way, but there’s something about how wide his eyes are that stops Stiles from wanting to slap him. It might just be a front. He hopes it’s a front. Hopes Isaac has a heart of gold hiding behind his jerk-ass exterior.

“Cups it is,” Boyd says with a shrug. 

“Let’s take a moment to bask in how we’re totally classy motherfuckers,” Erica says, rolling her eyes.

Stiles grins. “That we are. Mickey D’s can’t handle us.”

“Oh but what I wouldn’t give for a Big Mac right now. _Jesus_ ,” Lydia says, and everyone turns to look at her with surprise. “What? Just because I have a sense of personal grooming doesn’t mean I can’t eat a two thousand calorie hamburger with no regrets. And those fries. _Those fries_.” 

“Oh my God,” Allison says. “You’re killing me.”

“McDonald’s had the best fries,” Scott says with a funereal air.

Erica lets out a frustrated groan. “Stop it. You’re all making me hungry.” 

“I miss curly fries,” Stiles says. It comes out softer and more honest than he’d meant, paired with an image of his dad stealing his off his plate. But it doesn’t seem like anyone notices because then Boyd’s saying, “I miss milkshakes,” and Danny’s saying, “I miss just _ice cream_ ,” and they’re entering a sort of communal despair that hurts both less and more than it should because it’s shared.

And in a way, it really is a funeral service for the little things in the lives they used to have. Stiles’ mom used to say that the first thing you miss when you leave home is food, and collectively, they don’t have anything close to what they’d once been used to. No fast food, even if the East Coasters couldn’t mourn In-N-Out with the rest; no grocery stores, even though they all went to different ones; no _everywhere_ things, like Olive Garden (everyone lets out a single tear at the memory of their breadsticks), like Target, like movie theater popcorn or just normal stuff like packaged cookies or Bagel Bites or Pringles or _fruit_. 

The worst part isn’t remembering the stuff they’d had; it’s realizing that no matter what they do, they won’t ever have any of it again. The reward for survival is just more survival. There’s no prize if they make it to Beacon Hills. The past months don’t get wiped away like a secret in a fogged mirror. They have to keep going so they can keep going, and maybe in a hundred, two hundred years, their descendants will build the world back to something like it was, but they’ll never see it. 

They’d all seen Zombieland and Shawn of the Dead, but it had never really hit Stiles until that moment that it’s _permanent_. Their movie never ends. He doesn’t get to curl up in bed and browse the internet when it’s over. It’s never over.

There’s an ugly taste in his mouth that there’s no name for, and he smiles. He looks at everyone, the sad upcurves of their mouths, and he tries to mimic their expressions, pack himself away. He doesn’t get to be sad. There’s no place for that. 

He’s thinking about going outside for a walk when Derek catches his eye and he realizes that if he goes, Derek will try to follow. He can see it in Derek’s face that he would, this weird sort of connected look. It’s not safe. They don’t get to do that. So he stays. He sits, smiles, while everyone else reminisces about everything from high school sports to Joss Whedon (probably alive somewhere, but it’s not like he’ll have any shows out in the near future, or that they’d be able to watch them). They don’t stop talking when Boyd and Isaac start serving dinner. 

Stiles grins around his fork, belly growing warm and not-quite-full as they talk and share. Until the conversation turns to family. 

It’s not like everyone else hasn’t lost everyone, or near everyone. It’s just that some people don’t want to talk about Before yet. Some people can’t think of Before without remembering how many blisters it takes to dig and fill a grave. 

He doesn’t finish, just leaves his cup at the table and heads outside. Not far, just against the wall outside the door. He slides down until his butt hits the asphalt, and his knees tremble a little until he stretches his legs out. 

The sound of the rain helps.

He used to be afraid of storms. When a storm would come at night, his mother would come to his room and take him to stand on the porch to watch. She’d wrap him in her bathrobe and the way it pooled around him kept his feet warm. He always forgot his slippers. Every time. And they’d stand there for minutes, days, breathing in the thunder and the dark until he’d start to sway. _Storms are wild_ , she’d say, _but don’t be afraid. Wild things can’t hurt you once you know them. There’s nothing to fear in what you know._ He’d read a lot about weather when he was young, trying to know his fear until it grew into something like grudging respect. Wanted to be a meteorologist for a while, and when he’d grown brave, a storm chaser. He’d almost forgotten that.

Weird, how the things he didn’t used to think about can come back so strong.

The door opens next to him, and as Stiles looks up, he hopes/fears that it’s Derek because he’s apparently fragile and needy, and when it’s not, he thinks he might be relieved. Scott sits down next to him, smiling with half of his face.

“Hey,” Stiles says, cool. “Everything alright?”

“Don’t worry about it, bro. I told them you had to pee.” Stiles returns his smile then because maybe he forgets sometimes, maybe because he’s trying to amputate the festering entirety of his past, but Scott’s from Before and he’s _good_ and he _knows_ Stiles in ways that no one else does. Knows what he came from because they came from the same place, and there’s nothing that can mimic that feeling of sameness. Like they shared a womb. They’ll always have each other. Scott’s most of the reason he’s still here, most of the reason he keeps fighting. Because Scott, with all of his radiant goodness, has a future with Allison and that’s the something worthwhile to come out of everything. It’s something worth protecting. 

They sit there for a long time, shoulders touching comfortably, until Stiles’ butt is numb. The storm’s still tearing the sky down around them, but it looks lighter than before. When they’ve pulled each other up, Stiles smiles at Scott, lets his hand sit on Scott’s shoulder. 

“Are we going to kiss now, or…?” When Stiles shoves him, Scott laughs and Stiles tries to cover his teeth with his lips but can’t. Scott slings and arm around his neck and they head back inside. 

Dinner’s cleaned up when they get back inside. It looks like everyone’s staking out a place to sleep. It’s quiet, military-like. Maybe that’s Derek’s overseeing eye.

“Anything I can do?” Stiles asks him as Scott goes over to help Allison make a little bed beneath the soda fountain. 

Derek looks at him, face blank, and says, “You have first watch. The switch over’s at ten. Me and Scott. You have a watch?” Stiles nods. “Good. Use it.” And then he turns away. Stiles checks his watch. He’s got a bit over two hours. While everyone settles in, he takes his blanket from the pile they’d all hauled in earlier and curls up in a booth against the window. The glass is cold against his forehead. 

Stiles doesn’t have a problem staying awake. He doesn’t sleep much anymore. His body doesn’t like to relax. It’s hard for him. So he listens to everyone, the sounds of settling in, and he watches them. Boyd and Erica are in the corner, curled towards each other like commas, whispering. Scott and Allison aren’t saying anything, but they have a way of looking like they’re having a conversation while remaining silent. Lydia’s sprawled across Danny’s chest, burrowed into his shoulder. They look comfortable wrapped together. Isaac comes out from the bathrooms and curls around Boyd and Erica’s heads. The weird sort of intimacy they give off makes Stiles look for Derek. He’s in the corner, away from them, back to the rest of the room. His shoulders, shirt stretched between them, form an unforgiving barrier. 

There are walls between all of them. Between Lydia and Danny, romantic love. Between Isaac and Boyd and Erica, the same. Between the two groups, the absence of trust. Even between Scott and Allison, her father’s disapproval the last time they saw him. Stiles knows it’s something they carry between them. That it’ll take a long time for that to go away. 

But the only person who’s made their own wall is Derek, and maybe it should be like this, but Stiles finds that intriguing. It could be simple vanity, interest found in what could be his own reflection. Stiles does it, he knows he does, sees it in the way Scott looks at him sometimes. He’s trying to push them away, not far, just an arm’s length to protect himself. He never loved Jackson, but Stiles had been surprised by the depth of his grief for him; he’ll die protecting everyone because he wouldn’t be able to live if he lost anyone else. 

He gets it. Stiles prefers to sleep alone, to separate himself, so he gets why Derek does it. And he knows that that’s why, despite every obvious reason against it, he wants press himself against the wall of Derek’s back. 

He won’t, of course. He’s logical. He knows that it’s not an option, doesn’t consider it to be, but it’s something nice to think about. The idea of it fills him with a sort of warm pain. Longing, maybe. 

It’s obvious that he’s getting too attached.

Stiles _knew_ not to get attached. He’s smarter than that. It’s not safe. And here he is, daydreaming about snuggling like some kind of silly, lovesick…

_Bottom line_ is that he’s failing at being jaded. Sure, there’s supposed to be some sort of experience that leads to being jaded, but he’s sure that he could will himself into a state of being where he’s better and smarter than this if he tried hard enough. If he can try hard enough. Which he apparently can’t, because he keeps thinking about how he just wants Derek to like him. Wants what happened earlier to mean something. 

It doesn’t.

If he tells himself that enough times, maybe he’ll remember. 

 

Stiles doesn’t have to wake up Derek for his watch because he stirs almost twenty minutes early. It’s something weird about him, Stiles thinks, that he doesn’t look tired after what was essentially a glorified nap. He looks awake, like it’s the middle of the day. It’s not natural.

It’s possible that Stiles is jealous, but he thinks he’s just numb. Too much time surrounded by soft sounds like static. 

Derek sits on the other side of his booth. Instead of looking forward, he looks out the window. That’s how Stiles knows he’s avoiding his eyes. And _really_. _So mature_. What is he supposed to say to that, anyway? _Hey, thanks for helping me lose my virginity earlier, glad you got off_. Stiles scoffs to himself; Derek’s eyes snap to him for a second before skittering away. 

He looks old in the soft green-orange night storm light. 

Weirdly old. Like, how old _is_ he? 

Stiles is used to seeing teenagers, knows what they look like, even Danny and Lydia who seem like they never had to stutter through the awkwardness of puberty and instead emerged from cocoons as beautiful butterflies. But Derek is not a teenager. He can tell that much. His group seem like they might be. Isaac looks something like a puppy stretched thin and Erica has an odd sort of quality, like she sometimes remembers that she’s gorgeous. Like she’s not used to it. Boyd, well, he could be older, but his Converse have Sharpie on them. It’s not a sure thing, but he’s got a feeling Boyd’s young like the rest of them.

But Derek…

“You are by far the oldest thirty I’ve ever seen,” Stiles hazards as a guess. It’s probably wrong, but it’ll be corrected. 

It’s a glare that he gets at first, not an answer, but after several long moments of Stiles pointedly waiting with his face, Derek says, “I’m not thirty.” It’s not actually much information. He _sounds_ offended, like he’s younger, maybe by a bit, but that could just be how he always sounds. 

“ _O_ kay, then,” he says, drawing it out in something like annoyance, “but I’m going to put it out there that maybe you’re the only one in the room who’s gone to prom.” 

“I didn’t,” Derek says.

There’s this very odd, almost slow moment where Stiles can actually see Derek’s train of thought on his face. How he stumbles and pokes his nose at what Stiles is not saying until it finally hits him in the face. Brief, brief panic, but then it’s smoothed out, replaced by a calmly perturbed mask that sits there for a second before Derek’s mouth opens.

And…

Closes. 

He gets up, takes a few steps away so his back is to Stiles. There’s visible angst in his shoulders as they hunch. His hands clench. In the dim light, Stiles thinks he sees claws. Then they’re gone. He turns, and like that, he’s at the table, one very human hand on the laminate, more threatening than anything Stiles has ever seen. With the other hand, Derek jabs his forefinger at him, then at the door. The glare makes it very clear what he wants. _Go outside_. 

The only reason Stiles goes is because Derek never puts a hand on him.

“It’s cold,” Stiles complains, jamming his hands into his pockets. Derek looks like he’s having some sort of episode. “Was this necessary? Humans don’t like cold, dude. Hate to break it to ya.” 

“ _Shut up_.” 

At first, Stiles is pissed off, but then he realizes that it’s not just something he’s saying. “The noise. The rain. It’s cover. You don’t want anyone to hear you bitch at me.” Derek gives him a sharp, weird sort of look, then nods like that wasn’t what he’d been going for at all. “Alright, then have at it. I’m getting hypothermia.” It’s not really that cold, but that’s okay. He needs an excuse to be annoyed so he doesn’t think about the fact that they’re technically alone again. 

“What the _hell_ do you think you’re doing leading around a bunch of kids? Huh? What makes you think you’re old enough for that kind of responsibility? How old are you anyway?”

“That’s none of your business,” Stiles tells him evenly before realizing just how much that actually pisses him off. “And I could really ask you the same thing, couldn’t I? What gives you more right to be some kind of leader than me? What, that you’re some sort of supernatural creature? It must be _great_ that you don’t get infected, but the rest of us are trying to survive. Just because I’m sixteen doesn’t mean I can’t—“

“You’re _sixteen_? Jesus _Christ_.” Derek pinches the bridge of his nose, hiding his eyes behind his hand. 

Stiles doesn’t know what to say to that. And Derek isn’t saying anything, just looks…affected. Righteous anger aside, Stiles is actually kind of concerned about the guy. He’s. Well. He’s not taking it well. Which is weird. And awkward. What, was Stiles supposed to say something? Was he not supposed to walk out into the rain because he _had_ to touch Derek, is that what it is? Is he supposed to control himself better because he’s jailbait? Or was. _Was_. Because people don’t go to jail anymore. No jail. 

He gets the feeling he’s fucked everything up on accident. What’s he supposed to do? There’s no way to go back and not provoke Derek. That’s not really how time works. He’s old enough to know _that_ at least. 

“So I need you to tell me how to fix this because I don’t know how,” Stiles says. It’s honest and he’s terrified. 

Derek’s hand drops from his face. His eyes are open, almost wide. They’re very green, he thinks, not sure if it’s the pollution-colored light filtering through the clouds or if that’s Derek’s normal eye color. But they’re green and there’s a weird sort of innocence to them that Stiles isn’t sure he understands. 

Stiles rubs the back of his neck. “If I just say sorry, can we pretend that nothing ever happened? I know it doesn’t really work like that, but I’m willing to give it a try.” The lop-sided smile he offers falls flat. “I mean, I kind of assumed it was a one-off anyway. I’m not deluded or anything. So we can just put it in the past and never ever speak of it again.” 

“Why’d you think it was a one-off?” Derek asks, looking genuinely confused.

“Uh…” Stiles trails off, looking at him suspiciously. “Maybe because it was a really stupid thing to do in the first place? If anyone else found out, it would completely undermine the entire decision to go to California. I’m not willing to jeopardize anyone else’s safety for a bit of nookie.”

“Nookie?” 

“You know what I mean. My God. Do you want me to say ‘desperate humping’? I was trying to preserve your dignity.” _And mine_.

Derek shook his head. “If my dignity is your chief concern right now, then you need to reevaluate some things. After I…” He stops, swallows like it’s a bitter pill he’s forcing back, then says, “We’ll help you get settled somewhere else. If you don’t want to come with us. I won’t force you to interact with me after…after what I did.” 

It takes a moment for Stiles to fully understand what he’s saying, and when he does, well, he’s not really sure what to make of it. So Derek thinks he, what, molested him or something? And he’s trying to give Stiles an out. Because he thinks he did something wrong. And this is where Stiles is confused. Where he doesn’t know what to say. There’s not a doubt in his mind that things had started totally mutually. And middled mutually. And finished mutually. Sure, he’s sixteen, but if he’s old enough to knock a zombie’s head off (three weeks ago, horribly unpleasant, horrible state of decay) then he’s sure as shit old enough to have sex if all parties are consenting.

Stiles isn’t sure how to put into words what he’s thinking, not in a way that will get him what he wants. Maybe because he’s not sure what he wants. On a very basic level, yeah, he wants Derek. Derek’s hot. It’s really that simple. But he’s smarter than basic urges. He _knows_ that if Scott thought that the only reason they’d teamed up was so that Stiles could get some booty, Scott would never look him in the eye again. No one would have any reason to trust him again. None. If the group splintered, their chances for survival dropped dramatically. Stiles doesn’t get to take that chance. He doesn’t get to have a little adult fun until everyone’s safety is guaranteed. Or at least as close to guaranteed as possible these days. 

“If you want, I’ll wake up my pack and we’ll leave now. Just tell me what you want to do.” Derek looks supremely uncomfortable, actually. Not so much what Stiles was trying to do. He’s just trying to figure out a solution here. 

“I don’t want you to leave. That’s stupid. But we can’t keep doing _things_. It’s dangerous. Yeah, it was a mistake, but just because this is a really bad time. Maybe when we get settled, we can work out some sort of friends with benefits scenario.” Derek’s face turns blank in a way that probably means he’s unhappy with that. “Alright, we can be tenuous allies with benefits. Whatever. I like the benefits is what I’m saying. Just not…not right now.” 

Derek frowns a little. “And what if I refuse until you turn eighteen?”

“Then that’s your loss, I guess, unless you know what day it is because I sure as hell don’t. Who knows when my next birthday is. And I mean, really, is it that big a deal for you? How old did you think I was anyway?”

“I didn’t. Think about it. It’s…it’s fine, I just. It makes things more difficult.” Derek sighs, rubbing his face. “Nevermind. We can talk about this some other time. Your watch is over. You should go sleep.”

Stiles is tired, but he’s stuck on something. “What, exactly, is more difficult? I’m pretty sure sex is exactly the same whether I’m sixteen or eighteen or thirty-five.”

“You should go to bed.” That’s not at all an answer.

“What’s more difficult, Derek?” he asks with the closest he can muster to steel. 

Derek rolls his eyes. “ _I_ don’t even know what I meant. Drop it. Go. Get. Some. Sleep.” Stiles narrows his eyes, thinking. Derek doesn’t seem willing to budge any time soon. He’ll fight the battle later, when he’s least expecting it. 

“Fine. I will. Goodnight.” He says it in a way that’s very much not a _goodnight_ at all.

“Yeah. _Go_.” 

Derek raises both eyebrows at him in a way that neatly conveys _Move your ass_. Jerk. Stiles thinks about kicking him on his way inside, but that’s childish. Well, Derek’s face is childish. 

Okay, not so much childish as ruggedly handsome and really nice. But he’s too stubborn. Theoretically, that conversation shouldn’t have happened at all because it shouldn’t have been a problem that he’s a little younger than used to be okay. And theoretically, if they’d had to have that conversation, it should have gone differently. It should have been just about establishing consent. Maybe it would have been a little awkward, like maybe Derek would have tried to make sure he’s comfortable with it or something. But, well, Stiles isn’t really sure what just happened at all. He’s not sure if Derek will be on the menu for another couple years even. Which is just _stupid_. Actually the most ridiculous thing. Because once they get settled and the kids all start to like each other that, Stiles is planning on tapping that like a maple tree. Just not _now_.

And then there’s the other thing. 

_More difficult_.

_What_ is more difficult now that he’s “underage”? Not the sex. That’s not the problem, or at least he didn’t really get that feeling. That undertone felt suspiciously absent. So what, other than the sex? There’s not really anything else. Thinking back on it, it had been pretty straightforward, right?

Sort of. There _was_ the whole thing about Lydia wanting answers and Derek refusing to give them and huh. They’d been arguing about it, or Derek had been avoiding the argument and then bam, there had been touching and rain and that made a more complicated picture. He’d joked about Derek trying to distract him or shut him up, but what if that were sort of right? What if Derek had only _whatevered_ with him to convince him to try to make Lydia wait a little longer before he told her about the werewolf thing? Fuck. And if that’s true, then, well, what if…What if Derek had been planning on seducing him to turn him into his pawn or something? Like, trying to take over the whole group via Stiles. 

Jesus.

What if Derek actually _is_ that evil? Is he safe to be around? 

Shit, it makes sense though. Of course it would be more difficult to claim control of everyone if he can’t fuck Stiles into falling in love with him or whatever. Dear God. That must have been his plan. 

Stiles sits up from the booth seat he’d turned into a bed and looks around. Derek’s shoulders are pressed against the glass from outside. Good. So Stiles won’t embarrass himself trying to drag him anywhere. 

Derek doesn’t turn towards him when the door opens.

“Were you trying to seduce me?” Stiles asks him without preamble. “Were you trying to use sex to get me on your side? Is that what was going on earlier?” Derek’s mouth opens and closes again in a way that’s definitely not a _no_. “So what, you’re thinking you’re in a good place with that, that you’ll be able to manipulate me or whatever, and then you find out I’m sixteen and have some sort of moral crisis about it all? That’s cute.” Stiles snorts, disgusted and pissed off and thinking about maybe throwing a punch. He’s not even sure if he’s more pissed off that Derek had been trying to use him in the first place or that he’d changed his mind because Stiles is sixteen.

“What do you want me to say?” Derek asks, eyes a little wide. It’s not fear, can’t be. He’s probably just trying to manipulate Stiles further. 

“I want you to tell me why you thought I was that easy.” It’s not what he means to say, but it’s what Stiles wants to know. Even though it betrays more of him than he’d like, at least he might get an answer.

“You weren’t paired up with anyone. You wanted me. It was that simple” 

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Wow. _That_ ’s quite the assumption. Really, does your ego know no bounds?”

“It’s not _ego_ ,” he says, looking pissed. “It’s my sense of smell, idiot. Or did you forget that I’m a _werewolf_? I know when you want me and when you’re lying, so don’t waste my time. If you’re going to get pissed off at me, at least make it for a real reason.” 

“Alright then. Fine. I’m pissed off at you because you were trying to use me. Which, by the way, is a generally disgusting thing to do.” 

Derek shrugs. “I know. But it’s easier than making you think we’re friends and it would get me what I wanted. We couldn’t have kept going much longer with what we had, and why throw you away if we can keep using you for supplies? You _know_ how it is out here. _Everyone protects their own_.” Stiles isn’t sure if he’s saying it because it’s true or because he knows Stiles will see it as true. This could all be some greater ploy. 

“Why shouldn’t we leave you and yours right now? We can’t trust you.”

“So don’t. What was it you said? Trust the instinct to survive. We’ll do what we have to. If that means we have to deal with you and your little friends for a while, we will. If we have to use force instead, we will. Right now, we’ll both get we want if we all keep going. You’ll have safety and we’ll have food. Everyone’s happy.”

Stiles frowns. “If you’re able to use force, if you’re strong, if that’s one of those little werewolf things, then why don’t you all just take from other people? You could, you know. And you could kill anyone who resisted. Why don’t you? I bet that would be a whole lot easier than dealing with us.” Maybe it’s not such a good idea to tell him that, but there’s no way he hasn’t thought about it. 

“Maybe I don’t want to kill people. Maybe I was raised better than that. Maybe I wouldn’t like the person I’d have to become.” Stiles want to hit him for that. Wants to smack the self-righteousness off of his face.

“Fuck you. Some of us don’t get that option,” he spits. 

Derek shakes his head. “That’s not what I meant. That’s different. They’re…those things aren’t the same as people.” He looks off at the storm, then says, “I won’t try anything with you. I’m not saying I’m a good person, but I won’t do that. I wouldn’t have if I’d known. And don’t tell me you wanted it. You don’t know what you want. You’re too young.” 

“Maybe,” Stiles admits with a shrug. “Maybe I am, maybe I’m not, but you don’t get to decide that for me.” He pauses, thinking. “And no, I don’t trust _you_ , but I do trust that you could have killed us all if you wanted, and you haven’t. I’ll believe that you need us, for now, at least, and I think we’re safe with you for now. But I don’t like it, and I don’t like you, and I don’t forget things. We clear?”

“Crystal,” Derek says, short. His face is drawn tight, like he’s feeling a challenge or some sort of impotent annoyance but he’s resigned himself to it. It pisses Stiles off, but there’s not much he can do about it.

He doesn’t sleep until the watch changes twice. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's discussion of the whole underage factor here, talk of emotional and sexual manipulation, jsyk.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaack! I know this took forever but I kind of lost the plot for a while, so I ended up rewriting this, but there are significant plot developments ahead! Things are happening!

Morning feels like dying slowly. If it weren’t for the fact that he’s waking up, Stiles would think he hadn’t slept at all. One of _those_ mornings, then. He scowls as he rubs the crust from his eyes, then takes a second to check himself before he wrecks himself, pushes away his bad feelings. It doesn’t look good to have a bad morning. He’s used to being able to wash his face, though. The lack of plumbing is depressing. Never thought he'd be spoiled. 

He looks around. Everyone else still asleep, so it must have just been the light that had woken him. He starts counting heads. 

The only missing are Lydia and Erica. They must be the current watch. Stiles looks around for them and doesn’t see them, so, still wrapped in a blanket, he pokes his head outside. They’re sitting against the bottom of the windows in front, each with a blanket. Both heads turn to him. 

“Come. Sit with us,” Lydia says. She doesn’t pull an arm out of her blankets to wave him over, but she jerks her head a little.

He’s not sure he wants to join them. Not sure if these two teaming up is a good or bad thing. He doesn’t know Erica, and he doesn’t trust her. He remembers all too well being tied up. But he sits. On Lydia’s side. 

“What’s up, ladies? It’s a nice morning.” It actually is, too. The storm has cleared. It’s bright. Clear. The sky’s pale and open with it. 

“Just discussing our feelings about this little…merger, if you will,” Lydia says. Her smile is secretive, holding a private joke.

Stiles raises an eyebrow. “Alright, then. Spill.”

Lydia says, “We were curious—“

“Suspicious, actually," Erica corrects.

“Yes. Suspicious about how we’re going to your hometown, right? And it’s also Derek’s hometown?” Lydia frowns at him as she thinks about it, then says, “That’s a little…we’re not really sure what to make of it.”

“And by that, she means that we think you’re secret lovers or something and that what with the age difference and you being underage and the sheriff’s kid, it was a big secret, and that’s why Scott doesn’t know. So we think that maybe you two were trying to make your way to each other after everything got really shitty and here we are.” Erica’s grinning, like this is the most exciting story she’s ever heard. And it is a _story_ alright. If it were true, it might even be beautiful, the idea of fighting all of this to be reunited with someon. Or perhaps it still is beautiful in spite of the fiction of it.

Lydia nods. “Well, we’re not so sure about how you were making your way to each other. My guess is that when it all got bad, you called him and told him to meet in the middle. We’re not sure why he was in New York, though.”

“Unless your dad started to get suspicious and put the heat on him, so he ran away. That’s possible. Or you had a dramatic break-up because you both decided that it was too dangerous even though you still loved each other. And then you remembered when the dead started walking.”

They both look at him with the same expectant expression. Like they're waiting for him to tell them the most beautiful love story they'll ever hear. Well, he's not Nicholas Sparks and Derek's not his long-lost lover or whatever. Not even close. He can't give them what they want, that's for sure, but maybe the truth is interesting enough.

 “Alright, so that was creative.” Stiles takes a deep breath, then pokes his head up to make sure no one’s stirring inside. “Do you want me to tell you actual facts?”

“We’d like nothing more,” Lydia says, rolling her eyes a little. 

“I’d never met Derek before two days ago. But that doesn’t mean I’ve never seen him.” Both girls look sufficiently intrigued. “Around six years Before, I remember my mom picked me up from this after school karate thing I was really into. Which wasn't at all unusual, but then she said we had to stop at the pizza place and then by the hospital. And as we drove, she filled me in on what she knew: there’d been a fire out in the woods early that morning, and the Hale house had burnt down. I'd been there once because Derek's parents were big supporters of my dad's bid for Sheriff. Beautiful place, _huge_. 

"No one had realized what happened until almost noon that day, when a couple of hunters had seen the smoke. The only ones who had survived were two of the kids, Derek and his sister, both at an early morning swim practice, and their uncle, I think, who was in critical condition. The investigation was huge. It was the biggest thing to happen in our town in decades. When we got there, I tried to look for them and I remember seeing these two—well, they were kids, I guess, but I was small so they looked old and grown—near-adults in the waiting room and they both just…they looked like that moment when you think there’s another step and there isn’t. Like they both had one foot falling through the air and it hadn’t hit the top step yet. I was too young to understand it, so I hid by the vending machines until my mom came looking for me. I wasn't brave enough to talk to them.” 

Stiles sighs, looking at them, and says, “So that’s that. From what I understood, Laura, his sister, had been accepted already to a school in New York, and she was old enough to be a legal guardian, so they moved there. I think the uncle was still back home, in long-term care. Brain damage or something. That’s all I know.”

“Derek never said he had a sister,” Erica says, frowning.

“Well, maybe she got killed then,” Stiles says because that’s the most likely story. That’s what happens to people: they get killed. If she’d died in New York as they were trying to get out, Derek probably wouldn’t have said anything to them. People don’t like to talk about the ones they lose early on, especially not people like Derek. People like Stiles. Jesus. He needs to stop comparing himself to Derek. It’s embarrassing. He’s a better person than that. Or at least he hopes he is. ( _Or Derek's not horrible_ , his mind supplies, but that's not a safe way of thinking. Hate is easy. Hate is safe.)

“So this place we’re going to, it’s his old house?” Lydia asks. “Did they rebuild it or something?”

Stiles shakes his head. “Not that I know of. I’ve only been there once or twice, Before. It looked destroyed from the outside, but Derek said there’s a basement of some kind. Concrete. It’s way out in the woods, though, so even if some unsavory types come through town on a scavenging mission, it’s unlikely they’ll find us there. It’s pretty safe, or it should be.” 

It’s quiet for a moment. 

“Well, this is all too bad. I was hoping for some drama, you know,” Erica says. “The good sort of excitement. I wish you two _were_ long-lost lovers. It would make Derek more of a person. But I guess the whole tragic back story thing…he could really star on the CW.” 

“Ugh, I miss Grey’s Anatomy. That was my guilty pleasure show,” Lydia says with a little sigh. 

“Nope,” Stiles says. “We are not talking about television right now. I had a DVD collection I still shed tears for. I had every episode of the X-Files and Battlestar Galactica and The Wire and I don’t want to talk about it.” 

“We never finished season five of Mad Men,” Lydia says, frowning.

Erica shakes her head. “It’s such a tragedy.”

They stare off into the distance for a while, contemplating their lost entertainment, the things that used to define them.

“Okay, but seriously, you and Derek, is that a thing?” Erica asks abruptly. “I don’t like not knowing things.”

Stiles grimaces, trying to figure out how to push off the question, then says, “We’re not sleeping together. He’s not really my type, anyway, and I don’t think I’m his.” 

Erica tilts her head at him. “You're lying. He _totally_ is your type.”

“Maybe if my type is openly antagonistic towards me and altogether uninterested," he says sarcastically, regretting it as soon as it comes out because  _yeah_ , that's accurate.

Lydia smirks. “I wouldn’t be surprised if it was. Me, Danny, now this. You sure know how to pick them.”

“I don’t like Derek,” he says, and it’s true, or at least he’s pretty darn sure it is. It doesn’t feel like a lie. Because he doesn’t. Derek is kind of rude, tried to manipulate him, and isn’t really trustworthy. There’s not much to like. Other than the abs. Because, alright, those are likable. And lickable. Oh yeah. 

“Good,” Lydia says, “because you’re too good for him. You can do better.”

“It’s true,” Erica agrees. “He’s a very grumpy person overall. I think he hates people as a general thing. Which, as I was explaining to Lydia earlier, is why Isaac and Boyd and me are all a little on edge about this group powwow. It’s not like him.”

“Look,” Stiles starts, hesitating for a moment. “I saw where you were living, okay? It wasn’t a place to live, not really; it was a place to survive. After this long, I think everyone wants to settle somewhere. Like we did. Derek’s smart enough to know that where you were wasn’t going to last long, that you all wouldn’t stay there for much longer, and I think he feels too responsible for you to not try to settle. We’re good at finding food and there’s safety in numbers. We have more resources than you do. It’s a tactical advantage to join forces.”

Erica cocks her head to the side. “I think someone’s waking up. I’m gonna go inside, wake up Boyd. I’m hungry.”

Lydia smiles at her until the door shuts, then turns to Stiles. “It’s okay. I’m sorry about yesterday, about grilling you about Derek. I won’t bother you about it anymore. You can tell everyone when you feel like it.” She bumps her shoulder against his. It’s the friendliest thing she’s ever done towards him. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“It’s okay. _Personally,_ I don’t think it’s a big deal that he’s older, given everything, but you’re probably worried about what Scott would think, so I understand. I mean, he’s kind of scary, but if he makes you happy, then it’s up to you.”

Stiles shakes his head, saying, “No, Derek and I aren’t—“

_“Stiles_. Don’t bullshit me. I can read body language. And Erica says she’s pretty sure you’re at least into each other. It’s okay.” She pats his hand, offering a little smile. “Besides, he’s _hot_. You’re probably not going to be able to do any better.” 

He laughs, not really sure how to take that, so he changes the subject.

“Are you and Erica good? I’m a little worried about how everyone’s getting to know each other.”

Lydia shrugs. “It could be a little friendlier, but it could be a whole lot worse. I think it’s going to work.” She nods, then reconsiders. “I might watch out for Scott, though. I don’t think he’s happy with any of it, especially Derek. You might want to talk to him soon.”

“I’ll do that,” he says. The sky is too bright to look at directly, but he does. “I’m going to go inside. You’re good by yourself out here?”

Lydia gives him a look. _Duh_.

He bumps into Derek on his way through the door, sidesteps around him without meet his eyes. He’s angry, deep in his gut, but not angry enough to do anything about it. 

Everyone’s starting to stir inside and their quiet, private moments of peace make him feel bitter and hollow. 

 

This time, Stiles is in Allison’s SUV. Scott, the only other person he trusts to drive his baby, is leading the caravan. Derek’s relinquished his beautiful Camaro over to Boyd, riding with Scott. After what Lydia said, Stiles is a little nervous about putting them in a car together, especially _his_ car, but there’s not much he can do about it now without it looking weird. 

Scott used to have some anger issues, though. Nothing major, a couple of playground fights that had bonded them young, and there had been some outbursts when he’d been told about the divorce. More when he’d been told he’d have to live with his dad for a while. Scott’s dad was not a _nice_ man. He’d been kind of an asshole, Stiles remembers. Cold and angry. He doesn’t think it ever came to violence; Scott would have told him, or at least he thinks Scott would have told him. But maybe Scott’s a little hot-headed sometimes because of his dad. And maybe putting him in a car with Derek, who he apparently isn’t warming to, and Erica, who he’d had problems with yesterday, isn’t such a good idea. If only he’d known when they’d set up the rotation. 

“What’s wrong?” Danny asks, heavy with the sort of long-suffering air he uses to make sure Stiles doesn’t get the wrong idea about their friendship. Really, ask a a guy  _once_ if he's attractive to gay guys in the heat of the moment, and he'll side-eye you for the rest of eternity.

“Nothing,” Stiles says quickly, “nothing that can be fixed. All I know is that the sooner we get to California, the better.”

“Do you really believe that?” Isaac asks, leaning forward in the seat behind him. Allison glances over at him, like his answer is more than important. 

Stiles looks at them each and says, “Yeah. Yeah I do. It’s just about the only thing I believe in right now. As much as I believe that this world is a horrible, fucked-up place, I believe that our best shot at making it to thirty is in Beacon Hills.” 

 

Stiles knows it’s a bad idea. He’s seen enough television to know that the little farm off the beaten track is a bad idea, even given their good fortune so far, but at least the barn doors are open and there’s not a small herd stumbling out. Granted, it’s not a functional barn. Rich people lived here. The hayloft is a home office, there’s an expensive classic car on cinderblocks where stables should be, and behind the newly-painted house is a swimming pool. 

The front door is open. That’s a bad sign, he’s not stupid, and no one else is. They circle with weapons, drawing in slowly until Stiles and Derek signal who goes to the front or back. 

But what they find is an Ikea nest with those faucets you tap to turn on, a fake fireplace, and in the jacuzzi tub upstairs in the en suite, two long-dead bodies. It’s clear that scavengers have been at them, that the water in the tub and the summer have done their damage. The two skeletons sit in the dark brown stained tub with an empty pill bottle and two wine glasses next to them, and Stiles nearly pukes. 

Suicide wasn’t exactly a rare thing when it became clear that everyone was looking forwards to an apocalypse. Not rare at all. But seeing this, seeing these two people, who even knew what gender they were, who must have decided to go out together, peacefully, it hurts. Maybe if it hadn’t been for him, his parents would have done the same thing. Well, okay, his dad is too much of a hero for that — he’d try to save everyone he could, unless the same thing happened with his mom — but he almost prefers the image of their quiet surrender to what he’s put up with the past several months. 

“We’re not staying here,” he says as he backs out of the room. “We’re not staying in this house.” Leave them their home, their final resting. 

Derek grabs him by the shoulder, and huh, Stiles didn’t realize he’d been right behind him. “It’s too close to nightfall. We can’t find somewhere new. It’s not safe. We have to stay here.” Stiles looks past him at Allison and Boyd. They agree with Derek, he can tell.

“Fine. But we’re staying in the barn. This place is theirs.” Derek nods, hand dropping from his shoulder. His eyes are too green and too open where the setting sun hits them. He looks back.

“Search the house for supplies. The barn is our home base for the night. See about getting a fire going or something.” Boyd and Allison back out of the bedroom quickly, heading downstairs. Derek doesn’t say anything, but he gives Stiles a look, a question. Stiles nods and squares his shoulders. They have work to do. He can’t freak out. Even though he wants to. Badly. 

His hand is shaking when it settles on the banister, but he makes his feet move. 

The barn is large and open. Their three cars are in a neat line next to the front, and Stiles helps move bedding and cooking supplies inside. He checks the doors (they close tight) and examines the loft more carefully. There’s a small library and a desk. Looks like one of them was a writer. If he wanted, Stiles could go inside the house and find a picture of them, put faces on their skeletons, but the thought of making them something less than anonymous makes him nauseous.

“Think I could find some table space up there?” Lydia calls from below. 

Stiles leans over the railing and answers, “Oh yeah. Good place to set up. You can take the lantern if you need it.” The floor downstairs is all concrete; they’ll be able to have a fire, no problem. 

“Good. There’s a herd I want to check on,” she says as she starts heading out to the Jeep to get her equipment.

“Need any help?” he yells down, but she must not hear. Stiles hops down the stairs, then wanders over to the old car. It’s been exposed to the elements, that much is certain, but it looks like someone was restoring it. It’s _nice_. He doesn’t know enough about cars to have more than an aesthetic appreciation for it, but it’s damn good-looking. It’s the kind of car his dad would stop to look at. And doesn’t _that_ hurt like a bitch. 

“You need to come see this,” Scott says, his voice shaking Stiles out of his thoughts. 

“What’s up?” he asks as they hop up the porch.

Scott makes a face. “In the upstairs closet, there’s a door at the back, so you know, we— Well, see for yourself.” They’re at the top of the stairs, and he can see everyone back inside the extra room, past coats and pants. 

It’s a sex room. There’s no other way to describe it. There are sex things. Mirrors on the walls, a swing, chains and shit. Yeah.

“Wow. Real mature.” He looks at Scott. “I thought you were going to show me, like, an arsenal or something. I can’t do anything with this.”

“Can’t we just have a laugh? These people were kinky bastards. Can’t we get to be teenagers for a moment? I mean, that buttplug is almost half as big as my head.” Stiles gives him a tired look, but in the mirrors, he catches Derek looking curiously at a very strangely-shaped dildo, and a small laugh breaks out of him. And then, for a moment, they’re all young again. 

Allison holds up a schoolgirl outfit. “What do you think?” she asks Scott with a teasing smirk. 

Stiles manages to trip over some sort of thing in the floor that he thinks is for looping a chain through. And then there are ball gags and Derek gives him a meaningful and not actually sexual look about them, but, thankfully, says nothing. Erica seems to have found several types of handcuffs. She peers through them and Boyd and Isaac, giggling. 

But then Stiles remembers that they’ve got work to do and their flashlight batteries should be used for actual supplies instead of fun, and he tells everyone so. No one’s happy, but they’re not stupid, either. It all makes him weary, though.

When he gets back to the barn, Lydia’s got the fire going and she looks to be stirring a cup of instant coffee. 

“How’s the tracking going?” Stiles asks. 

She tilts her head from side to side. “It’s difficult to say. The radio’s not picking up so much, and I missed a good two days. That doesn’t seem like much, but it matters. Every little bit matters.”

“What, exactly, are you tracking?” Derek asks, walking in with a bunch of canned foods in his arms. He sets it all down on a workbench near the car.

“You know how the walkers tend to travel in groups? How you don’t usually see one off on its own?” she asks, and Derek nods. “Well, when I realized they did that, I figured it had to be some sort of basic survival instinct, social grouping. And if they all do it, then most of them will be in larger groups because smaller groups will join together. So I thought, you know, deer. Deer travel in herds, and ecologists can study and track herd migrations. So I’m trying to do something kind of similar.”

Derek looks surprised and impressed.

“But it’s a lot harder than it sounds—“ Derek makes a face like _of course_ “—and I’ve missed two days. And because I don’t know precisely how far my radio reaches, it’s hard to tell. All I really have is what other people transmit. Mostly distress signals, people under attack. It’s not accurate yet, and I need more data, but ideally, I’d like to be able to predict when and where they’ll hit and get more people involved. Sort of a warning system for larger herds.”

“So you’re really smart, then,” he says, like he’s cataloging the information.

“I had my eye on MIT once upon a time.” She smiles with a hint of bitterness. "And prom queen. _And_ class president." She looks a little lost, and it hurts him to see her like that.

“Danny’s kind of a computer genius,” Stiles blurts. “A hacker.”

Derek snorts. “And what? You’re a tactical genius?”

“I’m _definitely_ not a tactical genius, but I did used to play a lot of World of Warcraft. I was part of this guild based in Sweden. Really exclusive. I was their only member in the Western Hemisphere, actually. Messed up my sleep schedule like you would not believe.” Derek chuckles from somewhere low in his chest, so Stiles keeps going. “I swear, my dad thought it was drugs or something, and he used to make threats about searching my room and whatnot, and since he’s the Sheriff, they weren’t really empty threats, you know?”

“Your dad was the Sheriff?” Derek asks, eyes wide.

“Well, yeah. I think when I was really little, he was just a deputy, but for as long as I can remember, he was the Sheriff.” Without needing confirmation, he says, “You knew him.”

“Yeah. I mean, not well, obviously, but he was nice. Is he— Never mind.”

Stiles sighs, shoving his hands into his pockets. “No, he’s dead. My mom, too. Scott’s mom was a nurse at Beacon Hills Memorial, but she’s dead too. There wasn’t anything alive in that town when we left. Not really.”

“Oh. Well. Good to know.” The fact is, a year ago, that would be considered horribly rude to say to someone who’s lost everything, but the fact is, Derek lost everything twice, and that’s not a free pass, no, but maybe he knows how absolutely little an _I’m sorry_ does in the end. 

Derek's hands clench and unclench. For a second, Stiles thinks about those hands on his body and shivers.

Isaac and Erica come in with cans of food. Stiles thinks maybe they’d been waiting, listening, but he’s not upset. Their movement calls him back to action, and he starts trying to figure out dinner, to do something productive.

 

No one wants to go to bed that night. They all sit around the fire like they’re waiting for something. No one has anything to talk about, not really, so it’s quiet over the crackle of the fire. Scott and Allison look horribly cute, and it hurts a little for Stiles to look at them, but he’s not quite sure why. Erica and Boyd are actually a little less with the PDA, and Isaac is pressed up against Erica’s other side. Lydia and Danny are next to each other, and they just look tired.

Stiles doesn’t look at Derek.

Or he tries not to. And inevitably fails. Firelight looks good on him. The thought hits him before he realize just how fucked up it is. He rubs his head, feeling his buzz starting to grow out a little. 

After a while, he takes his blankets and curls up a little ways away from the fire. Tries not to think.

 

When the first thud hits the barn doors, everyone wakes like they’ve been slapped.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone for reading and keeping up with this so far!

The walkers look up when they shine their flashlights down on them from the hayloft. Stiles’ breath catches in his throat. 

“Guys? How are we doing with the weapons check?” he calls down below. “Because whatever we have, _I don’t think it’s enough_.” There’s a few thumps behind him as someone races up the stairs, and then Derek’s at his back, looking out the window with him. 

“ _Fuck_.” 

Yep, that pretty much sums it up. There’s a shit ton of them out there. The flashlight beam doesn't reach the end. And walkers and darkness don’t go together well. Or at least not well for the people trying to kill them. 

There's a loud, horrible noise, flashing lights. The Camaro's alarm. It doesn't scare them away, of course. 

He wants to say something to Derek, something like  _shut your motherfucking alarm off_ , or  _if we die tonight, it feels right to die with you,_ but neither of those needs to be said. Derek's hitting the button in his pocket, and then his other hand goes to Stiles' shoulder. 

“You have something of mine,” is what Stiles says to him. “And I’m going to need it back. Now.” Derek looks confused, so Stiles twists and reaches around into his coat pocket, hand finding a particular orange bottle. A vise locks around his wrist. 

“No fucking way. If you’re drooling, you’re going to be useless out there.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “It’s not just Xanax. It’s _Adderall_ , and it’s mine. Check the name on the bottle.” Derek pulls Stiles’ hand out of his pocket and takes the bottle from him, reading it carefully. The thumping against the doors, the entire front wall, really, below him is unnerving. Stiles picks at the edge of his shirt. 

“I can’t believe that’s a real first name. No one’s that cruel,” Derek says at last. “And I don't like this. I don’t want you to do this.”

“Look. I need to _focus_ if we’re going to take them out, and this is how I do that. So give me the bottle and let me do what I need to.” 

Derek looks like the least happy camper he’s ever seen, but he presses the bottle into Stiles’ hand. “Fine.” 

It takes a moment to dig for the right pills, but he manages to find two, and he sits at the desk, grabs a paperweight. Starts crushing the pills. Derek grabs his arm.

“What are you doing?”

Stiles looks up at him, determined. “Orally, it’ll take an hour for these to kick in. We don’t have that kind of time. The fastest way to the blood-brain barrier for Adderall is through the nose.” Derek releases his arm. Grimaces. Stiles works on crushing up the pills to a fine powder.

“Do you do this often?” 

“Wallet?” he asks, holding out a hand, then, “No. I did it once, a while ago. Usually there’s more time.” _And that time, it felt like my nose was going to fall off_ , he doesn’t add. He takes Derek’s ID out and uses it to form two neat rows. Looking at them makes him feel a little sick because he _knows_ how much it’s going to hurt this time, but there’s no other choice. He puts the ID back, hands Derek his wallet, looking over his shoulder at him. “You don’t have to watch, you know.”

Derek shrugs, looking horribly uncomfortable, as Stiles finds a piece of paper to roll up for a makeshift straw. Last time, he had a dollar bill and that made it all feel very dissociative and _Less Than Zero_ , but this time he’s a bundle of nerves. Probably because Derek is basically hanging over his shoulder, his disapproval heavy on Stiles' shoulders.

“Here goes nothing,” he says quietly, pressing one nostril closed.

It burns like acid and the back of his throat is so bitter he wants to scrape the tastebuds from the base of his tongue, but he swallows a few times and does the second line. His eyes water like a bitch, and he wipes them, coughing. Blinks. The taste lingers, awful, and he tries to swallow and swallow and swallow it back. As an afterthought, Derek claps him on the back. His hand is warm and Stiles can feel the sensory after-image of all five fingers. 

His brain is on. The world just went Blu-Ray, sharp and illuminated. It’s time to move.

“Let’s go,” he says, getting up, grabbing Derek by the arm. As he skids down the stairs, too fast, he says, “Allison, Lydia, if you break the window up there, you’ll be able to get a good shot.“

“But it’s dark—“

“I’m well aware of that, and that’s why Derek, Scott, Boyd, Danny, and I are going to go out there, fight through them, and get to the cars. The floodlights should be enough. Erica, Isaac, you’ll shut the doors behind us and wait until we get the lights on. How are you on ammo?”

“A conservative approach might be best,” Isaac says. So low, way low.

“How many are there?” Lydia asks. 

Stiles replays his memory for a second, then says, “At least fifty. Probably more. Either way, we’re fucked if we don’t do something. We don’t know how long those doors will hold.” He walks over to the pile of weapons and grabs his bat, pulls his handkerchief out of his back pocket to cover his nosed and mouth. He wishes they’d looked around the pool for goggles; it would suck like a bitch to get infected from stray blood spatter in the eye, which he’s not even sure would work but he saw a CSI episode once where a chick got HIV like that, so he doesn’t think it’s being too careful. But that’s not the present. He needs to focus on the present.

Derek pulls him aside, corners him against the door. “If it gets bad, we can turn,” he hisses. “We won’t get infected, and we could take out as many as we need.” 

“No,” Stiles says, shaking his head quickly. “Not unless it’s absolutely necessary. I don’t want to have to explain to everyone why you’re suddenly all creatures of the night.” Derek backs off, and as Stiles looks around, he sees that Derek’s pack are all looking at him intently. “Alright, let’s get ready to kick some ass!” he yells to diffuse their attention, clapping. "Chop chop!"

He’s hopping from foot to foot, knows he should stop, but he’s pumped and ready to fight or maybe to die. He could go all night if he needs to. Depending on what time it is since, ha, they don’t actually know. But he's confident now, and that's what matters. He can't lose that. If he does, he's dead. They're all dead. And that's not an option.

Allison looks like she's in her  _Tough Ass Bitch_ mode, but Scott cups her cheek and kisses her, and she softens for a moment. Stiles hates that he has to separate them to fight, that she's going to be watching from above and if anything happens to Scott, she'll see. It's ugly and cruel, but they need Scott out there. They need all they can get. There are too many of those bastards for anyone to sit on the sidelines.

It’s a moment before everyone else is ready to go, and in that moment, Stiles prepares himself. Stretches a little, limbers up, and then his pre-battle mantra:

 _Empathy_ —

No. This isn't just a little attack. This is the nearest they've come to extinction. 

_Time to fuck these bitches up._

He repeats it, over and over, shaking out his hands. His blood feels hot beneath his skin, wild. The promise of the fight pulses through him.

He’s ready. 

Erica and Isaac stand at the doors, waiting for the signal. The five of them, their little infantry, they seem to be good to go. Derek rolls his neck, rotates his shoulders, then huffs out a somewhat less-than-human noise. The muscles in his forearm are tight with his grip on his plank. He meets Stiles' eyes with a small nod. 

Stiles gives Erica and Isaac the signal. 

They yank the doors open quickly, wide enough for them to fight their way through. The dead fall in, too many pressing against the doors, and they’re trampling each other, but Stiles swings and stomps their skulls in and pushes forward. They have to push forward. The doors have to be clear, have to protect everyone inside. 

He’s yelling as he smashes and batters. Like he’s a knight on a battlefield. He feels like Lancelot for a moment, like he’s making this spiritual connection through bloodshed to heroes past. He’s not a hero though, not here. Murderers aren’t heroes. 

He can’t let himself think about it as murder. 

( _It feels like it_.)

In the near-dark, Danny’s swinging an axe, swinging it wide— _gotta be careful to avoid his reach_ —and Scott’s hacking of one’s head with his modified lacrosse stick. The small booms of Boyd’s gun are almost far between, but that’s right, gotta conserve. 

The cars are ten feet away, but the space between is crawling with writhing, stinking bodies, visible only by moonlight.

A yell rips out of Stiles’ throat. He _charges_.

Runs, swinging and wild. Sick crunch of bone. Wet squelch of tissue and rotten blood. Shoulders, sore, but he’s almost—

There: the Jeep.

This is the hard part.

Getting the door open. Getting in safely. 

It feels like it takes a lifetime. Beating them away as they grab at him, their cold, slip-soft hands. They make that wet wheeze of decaying vocal chords. Nausea spikes through him for a second, but he doesn't get to have a weak stomach. Not here and now.

When Stiles gets in and manages to get the door closed, just one dead finger stuck, he _inhales_. Just the once. To clear his mind and remind himself that he's _alive_. And then he’s turning on the headlights, wincing as the other four stutter in their violence, temporarily blinded. Yes, it could be what kills them. That split second of hesitation. But they’re deader if the lights stay off. Can't win a fight in the dark against the blind.

Then, time to adjust, just a moment, and he hits the switch for the floodlights on top of the Jeep. 

Hell is illuminated in an unkind fluorescent bath. Writhing, fighting, rotting Hell. 

The car rocks as a walker collides with the side. A horrible, mutilated face slams into his window, and Stiles jumps involuntarily. Its fingers scrabble at the window, trying to dig inside. Two fingernails break off. The sight makes him a little nauseous, but he swallows it away. Not the time. Not here.

Time to get back into the action.

He throws the door open with a two-footed kick, smashing two away. There’s just enough space to slip out, weapon first. Wiggle out, swinging, then slam the door shut again.

And then he lets himself fall into the pattern of slaughter again. 

Stiles doesn’t look for the others. Can’t. Not enough time to hesitate. Survival is too important. Gotta keep fighting, keep murdering. Destroying. Not murdering. They’re already dead. Right? But they’re moving—

They’re dead. _Dead_. 

Then why are they so hard to put down? 

Something's wrong with his head, just a little, like it's moving so fast it keeps landing on the wrong side of empathy. The dead side. Maybe the Adderall had been a mistake, maybe he's wired wrong for this right now. But he's got to master, fight through it. Ignore the fact that these were all  _people_ once _,_ normal, everyday peo—

A wide _something_  hits his back, and he whirls around, swinging— _Sugar, we’re goin’ down swingin’_ —and a hand grabs his arm before his bat can make contact. Derek. 

“Back to back?” he bites out, kicking one in the face with a heavy boot.

Stiles nods and swings back around, feels the heat of Derek’s back. It’s wet, blood or sweat, but he needs to focus. Focus on the decay-blurred face in front of him. The black, hungry mouths.

He spins out of control, attacking in a wild frenzy for a moment, then recovering in the seconds before more swarm in. Repeats. 

Derek yells something at him, but he doesn’t hear right or understand. Then, again, “ _Can we just set them on fire?_ ” For a second, Stiles pictures it, the flames eating them up, but he looks at the barn and realizes the problem there.

“Can’t. Barn’s flammable.” The noise Derek makes is something like a roar, and they’re no longer touching. A moment later, there’s pressure at his back again, but it’s cold, wrong. A strange _hiss_ in the air, and when he turns, there’s a walker with an arrow in it’s— _her_ —eye. Allison. 

 _Scott_. _Gotta protect Scott_. 

It takes precious seconds before Stiles finds him. He’s having a hard time, huffing and panting, probably wheezing. That’ll be the asthma. Jesus. _This isn’t safe for him_. 

“ _Scott!_ ” he yells, delivering a heavy blow to a walker’s collarbone. “Get inside. Go!” Stiles looks up for Allison, Lydia. It’s the second who nods and disappears. 

Where’s Derek?

 _There_.

He has to fight his way over, corpses separating them. “Help me,” he says. “At the doors. Scott.” Derek’s eyes roam, find Scott, then look back and he cracks two sharp _whacks_ to some kid’s skull. Not kid. Corpse. 

It all feels like a stretched-out blur, the fight to the doors, to Scott. Beating them away, watching Scott stumble inside with Isaac to catch him. He catches Erica’s eye, and she looks so _afraid_. And it’s like it’s _of him_. Not _for him_. Like she’s looking into him and she’s terrified of what she sees. But the doors close and he’s not even sure the moment had been real. If it's his fear and his mind working against him, reflecting his guilt in her face.

 _This is what happens!_ he wants to yell. _This is what happens to a person when they have to pick other people over themselves: they turn into monsters_. 

He would, too. He’d do whatever he had to, become whatever he had to if it meant everyone's safety. 

“ _Wake up!_ ” Derek shouts at him, and then he’s jumping back in, swinging. 

That’s when he feels it. The second worst thing he could possibly feel: _tired_. His arms hurt. His legs hurt. His back hurts. He has no idea how long they’ve been doing this, if it’s minutes or hours, but all of him hurts and that means the adrenaline is fading and his body is winning. He needs more, another kick, something to push himself more. 

The only thing he can find in himself is rage, so that’s what he uses. He screams, harsh and guttural, and _goes_. Manic and half-blind and knowing that hesitation means death, means he’s done, means they’re all done, he smashes and ignores the scent and sound of torn flesh and cracked bone. Kills, is what he does. He gives himself permission to kill. To be what he needs to be. 

Danny’s on top of the Jeep, doubled over and half-heartedly beating away the hands that reach up for him. 

“Are they thinning out?” Stiles yells at him. Danny looks up quickly, and the look on his face says it all. 

 _They’re fucked_. 

No, no, that can’t be. That’s not acceptable. Nope. They’re going to keep going until they have nothing left to give. That's the only option. The barn won't last if they try to hide. They'll be swarmed. This is _their_ terms, this is how it has to be.

It takes him days to get on the roof of the SUV to get a look of his own. 

 _Jesus fucking Christ._ He sumbles, choking on the sight.

It’s not a herd; it’s a mass-migration. There have to be another hundred, all pushing forward. How the hell are they supposed to survive this?

Stiles half-retches, looks up for Allison. She lets off a shot, then looks at him, wide-eyed but determined. Lydia’s nowhere to be seen, but Erica and Isaac are firing carefully, taking a long time before shots. They must be nearing their limits on ammo. Allison doesn’t have infinite arrows, either. Lydia must be out of bolts for her crossbow. 

They’re completely and totally fucked, in short. Maybe dead. Who knows. 

But he can't think like that. Believing in defeat is how you get defeated. Someone has to keep going. He can't even  _find_ Derek and Boyd, can't tell if they're alive, but he knows that they'd want him to keep going. 

When Stiles charges off of the roof of the SUV, down the hood, he catches one in the face with his shoes. Pretends he doesn’t feel how it crunches. 

Maybe this is their blaze of glory. Maybe this is the end. 

He sure as hell isn't going out without bringing as many of them down with him as he can. 

But he can’t think now. Can't think at all. Gotta fight. 

 

By the time Stiles feels like a burned-out shell, like his arms are too weak to raise even though they keep moving, he’s almost on the other side of the barn. There are fewer over here, and it’s almost like a rest. God, he wants to rest. To just curl up and sleep forever and give up. It’s too much. There’s too many of them, and they’re losing, they've lost, and his body is weak, so weak. Dawn is rising, and he doesn't think it's a metaphor at all because he's  _dying_ , they all are, if they're not already. How long has it been? Weeks? Have they been fighting for weeks? Months? Years? 

He doesn’t mean to do it, but Stiles sort of falls against the side of the barn, shoulder first. Uses it to hold himself up.

He can’t keep going. His body is giving up.

This is the end. 

One of them stalks towards him, a fresher one. It’s almost walking, and for a moment, he thinks it’s Death itself, come to take him away. That maybe he’s hallucinating. Because it opens its mouth and this voice like crunching, wet gravel comes out. 

 **I can save you** is what it says. 

Stiles maybe begs, maybe cries and pleads, and then there’s black smoke and he’s collapsing and he’s done. He’s giving up. He’s done his best, and now it’s over.

 **Rest now** , a low, musical voice says. The words reverberate in his head, and he’s gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here's the sitch, y'all:  
> There will be maybe two or three chapters more, and then that's the end of Part One. Part One will be able to be read as a stand-alone, but there will be a Part Two and a Part Three. HOWEVER, I got this really intense and horribly angsty idea for a fic that I MUST write, so I'll be doing that before Part Two, but there IS going to be a Part Two.  
> Just keepin y'all abreast of the situation!


	8. Chapter 8

Everything is dark. This must be death — infinite darkness and unending consciousness. 

 **You’re not dead, Stiles.**  

Alright, so there’s a voice talking in his head now. And it’s not his own; he knows what his own head-voice sounds like. _Okee-dokee._ At least he’s not trapped in the dark alone.

**You’re not trapped. I’m protecting you from the shock you would experience if you were to rejoin the sensory world upon waking** _._

_And what the hell does that mean?_

**I’ve taken control of your body, Stiles. The experience of seeing through your own eyes while another moves your limbs could prove disorienting. I was concerned about your mental stability.**

Right. So the voice in his head is apparently a vaguely considerate dude? Or chick? Or…ambiguously sexed thing?

**My initial body was male, and I was comfortable in it, but that is not to say that I am necessarily uncomfortable in a female body. As for _what_ I am…well, that’s rather complicated. I’ll need to sit you down, I expect, and I’m rather busy at the moment.**

_You’re possessing me, then. I’ve seen enough episodes of Supernatural to know how this goes, and I’m warning you, I will find a way to tell Scott to exorcise you_ —

**Stiles, relax. I’m not a demon. Just a passenger. I chose you because I think you can help me, but you’ll have to allow me to explain another time. It’s difficult to choose the right words and focus on what I must. I’m trying to save your life.**

What…The memories come back to him quickly. _The walkers. We were under attack. You’re fighting them?_

**Technically, _we_ are. **

So that's more than a little disorienting, then. While he’s in this dark sensory cocoon, his body is doing other things. Alright. Freaky-deaky, but he can handle that. He has to. Even if maybe he’s going crazy.

**Would it convince you of your sanity to see?**

He doesn’t even finish thinking his agreement when, suddenly, he can _see_. 

His body is certainly moving, fighting. There are walkers all around, but he’s taking them out. How he’s moving at all is a mystery because he distinctly remembers overwhelming exhaustion. And pain. 

**I’m shielding you from that for the moment. You’ll need rest when this is over, but you’ll be fine. However, with your permission, I’d like to try something.**

That sounds suspicious. _What, exactly?_

**I believe that you are a conduit for preternatural energy. As a being of preternatural energy, I believe I can use your corporeal form to channel some of this energy in a way that may help us.**

_You’re going to have to dumb that down for the beginner, Patrick Swayze._

**In a word you’d understand? _Magic_. **

_Like, Harry Potter? Or Gandalf? Because I gotta say, some eagles would be nice right about now._

**Let’s see**.

Stiles’ hands raise in front of him, bat missing. The corpses around him stop as if they’re hitting an invisible wall.

 _Holy shit! That’s fucking awesome_.

**I don’t think I can hold this much longer. I need your help. Concentrate on it, on safety, and I might be able to hold the barrier longer.**

Okay, safety. He can concentrate on safety. With all of these rotting bastards so close, it’s his first thought, just wanting them all _dead_ so everyone will be okay. 

**That’s it.**

The air around his hands seems to waver. His sleeves slide up his arms as if blown back by some strange wind. Even though all he has is his sight and mind, Stiles can _feel_ that something strange is building. 

 ** _Concentrate_**.

And he does. He thinks about how he wants them all gone, how much he wants it, and it’s like something clicks.

Like a blast wave, they fall. Dark, dark red, almost black blood and… _other_ matter bursts out of their eyes, like their brains imploded in their skulls. For a moment, all Stiles sees is a field of corpses, and then everything goes black again.

 

Everything is black again. It’s not pleasant, waking up to pure darkness, because it’s not _really_ waking up.

**You’ve been unconscious for four hours. Your friends are worried.**

_Are you gonna give me the reins, then? Or is this the part where you tell me that this is a non-hostile takeover?_

The voice is silent, but his eyes open and Stiles coughs— _he_ does that!—and tries to roll over. And _wow_. He feels like he’s been put through a meat grinder. He’s weak and oh so very, very sore. _Jesus_. 

“Oh my God, guys, I think he’s back!” Scott’s head appears in his field of vision, drawn tight in worry. “You okay, man? Come on, speak to me, Stiles!”

“It’s gonna take a lot more than a few walkers to shut me up, Stupidface.” Scott grins for a moment, utterly pure. He hugs Stiles hard, a little too hard for his sore body, but that’s alright. 

And then there are a million faces above him, mixtures of joy and confusion, all but the one that pushes forwards. Angry McAngerface. Great. Just who he wants to see.  _Not_.

“What the hell happened out there?” Derek demands.

“Sweet _Lord_ , Derek, give him some _space_ ,” Erica says, and Stiles can hear her rolling her eyes.

Derek leaves his immediate space, and Scott grins and says, “It’s good to have you back, man. We were really worried about you.” 

“Here,” Allison says, and Stiles sees a cup. _Water. Thank you, baby Jesus_. It takes him a while to sit up because yeah, that _hurts_. Okay. But the water feels good in his throat, and he realizes just how freaking thirsty he is. When he finishes, she takes the cup to refill it, which is awfully nice of her. They must have been _very_ worried. 

 **Some more than others**.

 _Wow, okay, ominous much?_ He can’t precisely hear it, but Stiles thinks the passenger in his head is laughing. 

“So, everyone’s alive?” he asks Scott, looking around. 

Scott nods. “Yeah—“

“Except, you know, for the some _fifty_ zombies you managed to wipe out _without touching_. Maybe you wanna talk about that, huh?” Derek says, voice low, close to a growl. He’s back in Stiles’ face again, and Scott looks like he wants to tell him to drop it, but he doesn’t. He’s not above wondering. Because it’s not exactly a normal thing. _At all_.

_Little help here? What am I supposed to tell them?_

**The truth, to start.**

_Yeah, because saying “I somehow have this other…_ thing _in my head now and it can do weird shit” is going to go over_ so _well._

**_We_ can do “weird shit”. I couldn’t have done it if not for you. You’re the spark, Stiles.**

_Wow, thanks. Really. They’re not going to believe it, you know. They’ll think I’m crazy. They’ll think I cracked under the pressure._

“God _dammit_ , Stiles, tell us what happened!” Derek snarls and oh, yeah, they’re waiting on an answer.

“You know, maybe we should give him some time. I don’t think yelling at him is very producti—“

Derek’s head snaps to Scott. “He could be dangerous. I’d rather not get killed because you’re trying to protect his _feelings_.”

It looks like Scott’s about to yell or punch him, so Stiles breaks in. “Hey, okay, let’s all calm down. I can explain everything.” They look at him, waiting, and it takes him a moment to figure out what to say. “I don’t know how exactly it happened. I just know that one moment, I wanted them all dead, and the next, they were. That’s all I know.”

“Yeah?” Derek says, pissed— **Or afraid?** — “Well, that’s not exactly a _normal_ thing, Stiles!”

“I can think of a few things that aren’t exactly _normal_!” Derek’s mouth snaps shut audibly at that, and Scott looks _way_ confused. “I mean, considering that we were just attacked by a bunch of the _undead_ , I think we should probably readjust our concept of normal a little bit. Okay? So I might have weird powers or something. Let’s just take it all in stride.”

“ _In stride_? Did you _see_ what we saw— _save it_ , Scott, you weren’t _there_ —because what I saw” Derek pauses, shaking his head, “it wasn’t natural. They just _stopped_. And then they all fell down like something had melted their brains or something and you were the only one standing. So _excuse me_ if I don’t want to take that in stride because that’s not something that _happens_.”

“Well, I’m sorry whatever freaky thing I did _saved your life_. But no, you’re right, raging at me about something I don’t even understand is a great ‘thank you’. _Asshole_.”

 **Don’t be so quick to judge, Stiles.** The voice sounds freaking _chastising_. **He was— _is_ —afraid of you. _And_ he carried you inside anyway. Consider that he might be worried about you.**

_Clearly, you’ve never met Derek._

Stiles realizes that Derek’s not there anymore, that he must have stormed off like the pissy little girl he is. Scott’s still leaning over him, though, and his face is hard to read. 

“You really spooked him, you know. When he brought you in…I’ve never seen someone that pale. I know I didn’t see anything, but Allison said it was pretty freaky, and I think she has a good baseline for that kind of thing. So I don’t know if this is some _thing_ you can just do now, but, uh, maybe you shouldn’t? I know it’s useful, but it’s not natural. Maybe you’ve got the Force, but I don’t want to see you go all Vader on us.”

Stiles doesn’t know what to say to that. There’s nothing _to_ say, unless he tells the truth, in which case everyone will freak the fuck out and probably try to perform an exorcism on him. So apparently he gets to be some sort of freak. Great.

**They’ll come around. Derek should know better than to fear magic.**

_So, okay, can you, like, read minds? I mean, you can read mine, I assume. Or you wouldn’t know my name. But others?_

**I don’t have to read Derek’s mind to know he’s a werewolf; I need only read yours. I’m not unfamiliar with werewolves, Stiles.**

_Right. Well. How much of my mind can you read? Like, all of it?_ All _of it, all of it?_

**I have to dig a little for earlier memories, but when you see people, memories of them float to the surface. If it helps, one in a position such as mine has a hard time judging. It’s difficult to form a judgement on something you’re inside of.**

Well, that’s good to know. Alright, then. His weird head-buddy isn’t criticizing his life choices. Cool.

“Hey, you okay? You’re zoning out there. Do you want to sleep some more?”

“Huh?” Stiles refocuses on Scott. “Oh, no, I’m good. Uh, food? Do we have food? I’m kind of starving.”

“Of course. Wait here. I’ll go get you something.” Scott disappears, and Stiles reacquaints himself with his surroundings. They’d made him something of a bed, it seems, up in the loft. He can hear the others moving around below. What he wouldn’t give for some super-hearing. They’re probably talking about him. They must be. Derek’s probably considering telling his group to strike out on their own. It’s not safe to hang around with some kid with freaky powers. 

_Hey, how does this all work, by the way? Can I only kill zombies? Or can I do other things, too?_

**I can’t be sure of the full range of our abilities, but I believe them to be based in will.**

_What, so believing is seeing, that kind of thing? If I think about something hard enough, it’ll happen?_

**Perhaps. I’ve never been in quite this situation, though I have dabbled in what you might call “magic”.**

_So magic is real, then? Other people have done it, before all of this Walking Dead bullshit?_

**Yes, but not in this way, or at least not that I’ve heard of. The separation of my spirit and corporeal form was an accident, a spell done wrong, so I don’t know if this precise scenario has ever occurred before.**

_Okay, so spells are a thing. Was it a spell when we knocked out all of those walkers?_

**A spell is only a series of words used to concentrate the energy and will on a certain task. In this case, I have the preternatural energy and you have the will, the ability to focus it.**

_Gotta test the waters a little, then._ But what to try? 

Something simple. 

He’s a little cold, so he thinks about the blankets, about how much he wants them to be warmer. It feels like there’s nothing happening, but he thinks a little harder, pushes his thoughts at it a little, and then there’s that little feeling of something clicking in place. 

Stiles isn’t cold anymore. When he sticks his hand inside the blankets, he can feel warmth radiating from them in little pulses. 

_Hot damn, head-buddy. That’s pretty fucking cool._

**Don’t over exert yourself. When you’re more rested, it would be a good idea to explore what’s possible, but for now, let’s take it easy. Eat. Sleep. Recover. Your body’s been through enough today.**

Scott comes up a moment later. “Here. I had to heat these up, and Allison gave me this for you.” He holds out a steaming can of chili wrapped in a small towel and a small jug of water. 

“Thanks, man,” Stiles says as he takes both. The chili smells like Jesus, but he goes for the water first. 

“We’re not planning on going anywhere until tomorrow morning, so you can sleep. Take care of yourself.” His expression is serious, heavy. He _cares_. Guilt smacks into Stiles. He’s lying to Scott by omission, if not outright. It’s necessary, to protect him, but it still _sucks_.

**Scott is more capable than you might think.**

Stiles doesn’t know how to respond to that, so he just eats and smiles when Scott squeezes his shoulder and heads back downstairs. 

 

When he wakes, it’s morning and he can feel Derek’s presence near him. There’s this sort of brooding sourpuss vibe that can only come from one person. Sure enough, Derek’s sitting at the top of the stairs, watching him. 

“I’m not going to spontaneously combust, you know,” Stiles jokes. 

Derek’s face is stony. 

“ _Relax_.” 

“How do you expect me to do that when I can’t trust you? None of us can. You _lied_ , Stiles. I heard it. You know more about what happened yesterday than you’re telling us, and that makes you dangerous to all of us. So until I know what’s going on, I’m going to be watching you.” 

“Really? Well, I gotta take a piss. Are you gonna watch me do that, too?”

Derek shrugs a little. “If that’s what it takes.” 

Stiles thinks he’s not serious, but when he gets up and steps over him to get down the stairs, Derek follows. And he follows to the door, watches as Stiles opens it, where he has to stop for a moment, taken aback by the stench of rotting corpses. Derek pushes him out and pulls the door closed behind them. There’s not much clear ground, and when he steps on them, the texture feels just _wrong_. But he makes it all the way to the far side of the house. It feels like there should be _trees_ or something, so he doesn't have to pee out in the open, but he’ll do with what he has. Without sparing a look at Derek, he unzips and does his business. 

When he’s done, he turns to look at Derek and raises an eyebrow. 

“Are we far enough that they won’t hear?” he whispers. 

After a second, Derek nods. 

_Is telling him going to come back to bite me in the ass?_

**He’s trusted you in a time of crisis. Returning the favor would be good diplomacy, if nothing else.**

“Well then. Here’s the sitch: it’s not just me up here,” he says, pointing to his head. “I don’t know who or exactly _what_ the other guy is, but he’s a dude, or _was_ a dude, and he’s in my head because he can’t really exist on his own right now, and I know that sounds like a bad kind of Voldemort and Quirrell situation, but he doesn’t seem to be a bad guy. So there.” 

It takes a moment. Derek’s face is totally blank at first, and then he seems to get a little angry, but he takes a step backwards. 

“What you’re saying, then,” Derek says, voice low, “is that you’re possessed?”

Stiles thinks about it. “That’s not _really_ how it is, I mean, I’m talking to you now. He’s just riding shotgun. He seems to be pretty intelligent, and he’s familiar with magic-y stuff. I think he used to be a wizard or something.” 

**I was _not_ a wizard. I dabbled, is all. **

“Okay, _not_ a wizard, he just dabbled in magic-y stuff. Which is a little bit more than the average person, so whatever.”

That doesn’t seem to be very comforting to Derek, but he seems to be at a loss for words.

“Look, it’s not ideal, but I can do cool stuff now. And yeah, he can kind of take over my body I think, but he needs me to be able to do the cool stuff. It’s kind of a mutual sharing-my-headspace thing. I know that’s a little freakier than you want to hear, but it’s the truth.”

“I know.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “This is a lot to deal with.”

Stiles whistles. “You’re telling me.” 

“I don’t like it. I want it out of you. It’s not safe.”

“Careful,” Stiles warns, “that almost sounded caring.”

Derek rolls his eyes. “Figures. That this would be a joke to you. Newsflash, Stiles: you don’t need special powers to kill people in their sleep. You just need a body. Do you even know what it _wants_?”

Well, that’s probably a good question.

 _What_ do _you want anyway?_

**Well, I’d prefer to have my own body, but I don’t know how to make that happen. I would consider that a long-term goal. In the meantime, I can manipulate a dead body in good condition, but I haven’t come across a fresh one in some time. For that reason, I resorted to you. So if you could find me a recent corpse, I could get along for a while until I find out how to have my own body. Call that a short-term goal. I assume you’ll want to be alone in here again as soon as possible.**

_Good to know_.

Stiles relays that much to Derek. He takes it…well, not worse than expected. It seems to calm him down, actually. 

“I know it’s kind of a really weird thing to happen, but I trust him. Okay? It’ll be fine. Now let’s get back and wake everyone up. We should get a move on. If we push through, we might be able to make it into California tonight.” 

Derek nods and turns, leaves Stiles standing there in the dirt like a loser. He jogs to catch up and sort of bumps Derek’s shoulder instead of saying anything. He’s not really sure why he does it, but he just feels like some sort of contact is necessary. Which is kind of a weird thought that he doesn’t ever want to have again. Ever. Because Derek is a manipulative douchenozzle with nice abs and a bad attitude. So fuck him. 

**It’s not unusual to be attracted to someone even though you may dislike them as a person.**

_Shut up. I don’t want to hear it._

**I’m aware. But that doesn’t mean you don’t need to. You’re young. You become attracted to people easily. It doesn’t mean that you have feelings for them. If that helps.**

Alright, maybe it does help a little. Because he hadn’t _really_ been thinking about that, but only really because he’d been purposefully _not thinking about it_ , and hearing that does help just a little. Because that means he can look at Derek’s broad shoulders and narrow waist and _criminal_ ass and it’s okay. Better than okay because the dude is _fine_ , even though he’s an asshole. Seriously. Like, damn. 

Derek snaps his head at him. “Can you _not_? We’re not ten feet from at least a hundred decomposing bodies and I can _still_ smell sex on you.” _Oops_.

“Then stop smelling me. Jesus. It’s not that hard.”

“Really?” Derek asks, pure sass. “Do you have my sense of smell, then? That’s news to me.” 

“Shut up. Go chase your tail or something.” He covers his nose because decay is _rank_. And maybe he feels a little guilty when he realizes that because Derek must be smelling it _way_ worse. Which means…yeah, okay, _hello_ , guilt. 

When they finally make it back inside, people are stirring. 

“Wakey wakey, beautiful people, time to get up and face the day.” 

“We shouldn’t have let you sleep,” Danny growls nearby. “You’re way too perky.” Yeah, he's not a morning person. 

Stiles claps. “Come on. Up and at ‘em. If we want to reach our destination tomorrow, we gotta keep going.” He pokes at the fire. Still hot, though it’s mostly embers. It’ll be fine for cooking. 

Allison sits up and stretches. She smiles at him before she turns to Scott to rouse him. 

Derek’s toeing Boyd and Erica in the ribs to get them up. He looks up almost as soon as Stiles looks at him.

“So, just out of curiosity, do you turn off the Jeep last night?” The look he gets is answer enough. “And this is why jumper cables are great. Grab your keys.” 

It’s probably not the best idea, it turns out, to do this with Derek. Because after a few minutes, Stiles’ nose adjusts to the smell of decay and it stops making him nauseous. And then there’s Derek in a white tank top leaning over his engine and _damn_. The mechanic fantasies are totally justified because that’s quite the view. He doesn’t even realize that he’s just standing there with the jumper cables in his hands until Derek looks at him with a crease between his brows and says, quite pointedly, “ _Stop that._ ” 

Stiles holds out the cables with a sheepish grin. “Sorry. Can’t help it. Uh, you wanna do this? I have to admit, I’ve only ever watched my dad do it.” Derek sighs like he’s done nothing to deserve his terrible lot in life or something, which Stiles resents because hey, he’s not that bad, really, and it’s kind of Derek’s fault what with the attempted seduction and all. 

“Get over here,” Derek says, and that’s what Stiles does. And when Derek shows him where to clamp the cables, first on his Jeep, then on the Camaro, he does it. Bites his tongue the whole time to hold back a smile. It’s not so much that Derek’s being nice because he really isn’t, but he’s being _helpful_ and not trying so hard to be a bitter asshole, which is new and different from him. He says under his breath, “My uncle Peter showed me how to do this,” and it sort of makes Stiles wants to know all about his family. In a way that means he’ll never ask. 

**He may tell you yet.**

_That’ll be the day. If my whole family burned to death I probably wouldn’t talk about it either._

When Derek tells him to, he twists the key in the ignition, grinning when the engine barks and purrs. “Houston, we have lift off,” he says, looking to Derek. He catches the tail end of an eye roll.

“You’re going to have to let it run," he says, shutting the driver's side door of the Camaro. "We’ll have to find a generator somewhere to charge your battery.” 

Alright. Not quite the banter he would have liked, but at least Derek didn’t threaten him. Baby steps.

 

It’s almost half an hour before everyone’s ready to go. Car arrangements are made over a light breakfast, with somewhat more of a mind for diplomacy. Stiles figures Danny can handle Isaac and Erica by himself, since Scott shouldn't, and he’s the only person other than Scott he’d trust to drive his Jeep, and Scott had begged to be with Allison, so. Lydia suggests that he ride with Derek for “coherency of leadership” which kind of sounds like bullshit, but Isaac and Erica agree very loudly, as does Allison, once Lydia jabs her in the ribs, so it would look weird if he refused. Stiles isn’t sure if it’s matchmaking or what, but Derek just looks so put upon that he doesn’t actually want to say no. 

The only thing left is to deal with the bodies. Everyone moves the cars back a ways from the edge of the field of corpses while Lydia and Danny search the barn for gasoline. They come out a few minutes later with empty hands.

“Maybe we could just leave them here,” Erica says, shrugging. “I doubt they’re going to walk away.” 

“But what if we’re, like, over an aquifer or something? If we leave them to rot, it could seep down into the soil and pollute the entire water system in the area,” Lydia says. “It’s hard enough to survive these days without having to worry about your water.”

 **I think we could handle a little fire, if that's necessary**. 

 _Yeah? Let’s give it a try_. 

Stiles stretches his hands out in front of him, fingers laced together, and says, “I think I got this. Everyone get back to the cars. Gimme a little space.”

Everyone but Derek backs away cautiously.

“That means you, too, Biker Gang Ken.”

Derek shakes his head. “I’ve seen enough movies to know how this goes. They try to light a candle and end up blowing the place because they can’t stop. I’ll stop you, I can guarantee you that.”

Stiles looks at him, one eyebrow raised. Derek’s promising to stay with him while he burns a building. It makes him wonder if Derek saw his house in flames. He shouldn’t have, but Stiles would bet he can picture it with perfect clarity. 

Nodding once, Stiles extends his hands. Pictures it. The barn, on fire. The bodies, on fire. The smoke, darkening the sky. The heat, like a sudden desert wind. The smell, the godawful smell, of burning flesh. His shirtsleeves flap against his wrists and forearms, and something in the air seems to hum before that feeling of clicking into place with the world. 

The sparks come first. Hundreds of them, like lightning bugs. Like bright static until they catch. The flames start small, a thin orange blanket giving off a heavy black smoke. They build in the air, oxygen being sucked in and there’s something of a wind. He can feel it coming from him, is the thing. The walls of the barn are burning and it’s because of _him_. This is something he can _do_. 

A hand grabs his shoulder, but he ignores it because there’s this sick thrill coiling around his spine, something like victory, something like pride. This is his, this fire is all his, this wall of heat and—

“ _Stiles!_ ” The hand is shaking him, and he wants it to stop. He can do that, he can make it stop, if he wants to.

 **That’s enough now**.

_You don’t get to tell me what to do._

“Stiles, you need to _stop_ ,” a voice yells in his ear, angry and familiar. “ _Come back_.” Something about that sticks, like a splinter beneath his fingernail. He should listen. He should stop. Derek’s right. Derek—

Derek’s supposed to bring him back. That’s the sign that he’s going to far over the edge: Derek pulling him back.

The buzz of _something_ stops flowing through him. His hands drop to his sides. 

When Stiles has shaken his head, he looks and sees that the house is on fire, too, that the ground is burning. Jesus. Okay. So that’s too far. He needs to learn how to control this.

His hands are shaking when he looks at Derek. There’s a _thank you_ in his throat, but it’s too dry to come out. He nods, manic, too fast, and hopes Derek gets it somehow. He must, because he sort of shoves Stiles in the direction of the car. Neither of them looks over their shoulders at the flames. 

“I still hate you,” Derek says as he slides into the driver’s seat. 

“Your pain gives me a special kind of joy,” Stiles quips with a smile he doesn’t feel. His hands are still shaking. There’s still smoke in his throat, his nose. His face still feels hot, the skin tight.

Derek doesn’t look at him. “Don’t touch the CD player. You don’t have music privileges.”

“Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole,” Stiles says hollowly. His fingers play with the lock on the door as his head goes somewhere else, somewhere in a memory.

“You’re not Sam Winchester.” It’s quiet, and he doesn’t catch it at first. 

Stiles brightens. “Yeah? I could be Dean, then. I _am_ Batman.”

The look Derek gives him as he reverses and pulls away from the burning barn is answer enough.

“Fine, you’re Sam. You have darkness hidden in your soul, just behind your abs, but you’re actually a prissy diva with a bitchy face.” 

“I’m not Sam.”

“Keep telling yourself that, Sammy.” He glances at Derek slyly. “Who do I get to be, if I'm not Dean?”

“Someone who dies,” Derek says, and Stiles is pretty sure it’s supposed to sound threatening, but it doesn’t come off that way.

“Okay, so basically _any character on the show_. Cool. Way to narrow it down.” 

Derek rolls his eyes, he totally does, and says, “Fine, be that one annoying asshole with the candy who spent an episode making Sam’s life a living hell. Because that’s what you do.” Stiles grins. Yep, Derek’s accepted his fate.

“Gabriel was one of my favorites, so the joke’s on you. Sucks to suck.” He sticks his tongue out because hey, he gets to be childish if he wants to. Also, Derek’s annoyed face brings him happiness. Stiles leans his head against the window, smiling to himself a little.

 

It's not long before they're all on the road and nothing really _feels_ right, but beyond the window, asphalt blurs by and it feels like they’re covering ground, like they have a destination that will be exactly the place they expect, but Stiles is smarter than that. There’s always something wrong down the line, isn’t there? That’s how this works. The best case scenario never comes true. He just has to be ready for it.

**Have you ever considered that you take too much responsibility for things beyond your control?**

_Someone has to._


End file.
